THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

Estate  of 
Ernst  and  Eleanor 
van  L\5ben  Sels 


CATHCART'S  LITERARY  READER. 


"  Some  books  art  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  twaihwed,  and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and 
digested.  That  is,  some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in  farts  ;  others,  to  be  read,  but  not  curi- 
ously ;  and  some  few  to  be  read  wholly,  and  with  diligence  and  attention.     Some  books  also 

may  be  read  by  deputy,  and  extracts  made  of  them   by  others Reading   maketh  a 

/ull  man  ;  conference,  a  ready  man  ;  and  writing,  an  exact  man.  And  there/ore,  if  a 
man  write  little,  he  had  need  have  a  great  memory  ;  i/  he  confer  little,  he  had  need  have  a 
present  wit  ;  and  if  he  reads  little,  he  had  need  have  much  running,  to  seem  to  know  that 
he  doth  not.  Histories  make  men  wise ;  poets,  witty  ;  the  mathematics,  subtle ;  natural 
philosophy,  deep  ;  moral,  grave  ;  logic  and  rhetoric,  able  to  contend." 

BACON'S  ESSAYS. 


ffl)e  ;3imcritiiu  (Educational  Jkcvies. 

THE 

LITERARY  READER: 

TYPICAL  SELECTIONS  FROM   SOME  OF  THE  BEST 

BRITISH    AND    AMERICAN    AUTHORS, 

FXOM  SHAKESPEARE    TO    THE   PRESENT  TIME, 

CI)conologicalls  ^rrangcb  ; 

WITH   BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  SKETCHES, 
AND   NUMEROUS   NOTES, 

ETC.,   ETC. 

By  GEORGE  R.  CATHCART. 


NEW  YORK   AND  CHICAGO: 

IVISON,   BLAKI  \'\N,   TAYLOR,  AND   COMPANY. 

1877. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congrew,  in  the  year  1874, 

BY   IVI80N,    BLAKEMAN,    TAYLOR,   A  CO., 

in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washingtcm. 


(kfH^  cuc^  /rt^'  rV/^^ 


EDUC.- 
PSYCH. 
LIBRARY 


GIFT 


PREFACE.  kibrz^^-^' 


The  compiler  of  this  work  has  not  designed  to  make  a  compendium 
of  English  Literature,  but  to  provide  the  means  of  acquiring  a  fair 
knowledge  of  that  literature,  for  those  who  may  not  be  able  to  procure 
a  regular  course  of  study  on  the  subject.  So  far  as  gradation  is 
concerned,  the  book  is  intended  to  fill  the  place  usually  occupied  by 
the  "  Sixth  "  or  "  Advanced  "  Reader.  The  extracts  will  be  found  of 
suitable  length,  and  in  other  respects  well  adapted,  it  is  hoped,  for  this 
purpose.  In  the  ordinary  catalogue  of  common-school  studies  literature, 
practically,  holds  but  a  humble  place :  its  value  to  the  mass  of  scholars 
has  been  underestimated,  and  it  has  been  esteemed  a  branch  of  knowl- 
edge really  useful  only  to  the  few  who  aspire  to  a  '*  liberal  education." 
Public  sentiment  has  fortunately  undergone  a  change  touching  this  mat- 
ter, within  a  few  years ;  and  in  the  hope  of  furthering  that  change  and 
confirming  literature  in  its  true  place  among  school  studies,  this  book 
has  been  prepared.  The  people  of  the  United  States  are,  above  all  others, 
a  nation  of  readers,  and  no  thoughtful  person  need  be  told  how  potent 
in  the  formation  of  character  and  in  the  shaping  of  the  national  life 
is  the  influence  of  books.  The  rapid  increase  of  our  schools  in  numbers 
and  efficiency,  the  multiplication  of  public  hbraries,  and  the  ever-growing 
volume  of  new  publications,  indicate  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt  that, 
practical  people  though  we  are,  we  find  in  books  the  chief  source  of  our 
intelligence  and  national  strength.  Books  embody  the  accumulated  wis- 
dom of  ages ;  in  them  we  have  the  garnered  experience  of  centuries  long 
past ;  in  them  we  find,  so  to  speak,  formulas  for  our  guidance,  prccedenta 
in  the  conduct  of  our  fathers,  which  time  has  stamped  with  the  validity  of 
rules.  Human  nature  is,  in  effect,  unchanged  since  the  earliest  days  of 
the  world ;  and  the  record  of  ita  thought  and  manifestations,  which  consti* 

459 


VI  PREFACE. 

tutes  the  history  of  civilization,  is  the  most  precious  inheritance  that  could 
have  come  down  to  us.  The  literature  of  a  nation  is  its  history  in  the 
subtlest  form ;  and  he  who  intelligently  reads  it  apprehends  the  spirit  of 
the  time,  while  history  itself  gives  him  only  results.  Literature  is,  indeed, 
the  most  faithful  expression  of  the  national  spirit,  wliich  seems  to  inspire 
and  inform  it ;  and  the  reader  of  this  volume  can  readily  trace  in  the  chron- 
ologically arranged  extracts  from  her  writers  the  many  stages  that  mark 
the  vicissitudes  of  England's  thought :  religion,  pohtics,  general  culture, 
all  disclose  their  changing  features  in  the  theology,  the  poetry,  and  the  drama 
of  succeeding  centuries. 

EhgUsh  Literature,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say,  antedates  the  time  at 
which  our  extracts  begin.  Its  birth  is  generally  assigned  to  the  last  half 
of  the  fourteenth  century.  Three  chief  forces  produced  it,  —  classical  learn- 
ing, the  influence  of  Itahan  culture,  and  Norman  poetry,  known  as  Romance 
literature,  which  was  gradually  introduced  into  England  after  the  Conquest . 
But  of  this  period  —  and  of  the  earlier  centuries  to  wliich  belong  the  Saxon 
poem  of  Beowulf,  Caedmon's  paraphrase  of  Scripture,  the  Ecclesiastical 
History  of  the  Venerable  Bede  (who  Uved  673-735),  Layaraon's  "Brut, 
the  metrical  Chronicle  of  Robert  of  Gloucester,  etc.,  etc.  —  it  has  been 
thought  best  to  reproduce  in  this  volume  no  representative  fragments,  for 
the  reason  that  these  archaic  writings  are  valuable  only  to  the  professed 
scholar.  The  same  reason  operates,  less  powerfully  indeed,  to  exclude 
specimens  of  Chaucer's  poems.  He  was,  it  is  true,  the  founder  of  Eng- 
lish literature,  and  the  first  who  demonstrated  that  the  Enghsh  language 
was  susceptible  of  forcible  and  harmonious  arrangement  in  rhythmical 
form.  But  his  writings  present  serious  obstacles  to  the  ordinary  reader 
in  their  multitude  of  obsolete  words  and  phrases,  and  an  acquaintance  with 
them  may  properly  follow  the  study  of  more  modem  writers.  Moreover, 
the  reform  which  he  inaugurated  in  letters  was  not  steadily  progressive. 
The  century  immediately  following  his  life  was  notably  barren  of  literary 
growth ;  a  barrenness  mainly  due  to  the  stern  repression  of  free  inquiry 
by  the  ecclesiastical  authorities,  and  secondarily  to  the  prevalence  of  civil 
wars,  which  diverted  attention  from  the  peaceful  pursuit  of  letters.  Near 
the  close  of  this  century,  however,  printing  was  introduced  into  England, 
as  if  in  preparation  for  the  season  of  intellectual  activity  which  was  ne-ar 
at  hand.  Tliis  season  is  known  as  the  Elizabethan  age,  the  reign  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  and  has  been  called  the  creative  period  in  English  literature. 


PEEFACE.  VU 

It  may  be  regarded  as  the  legitimate  result  of  the  Reformation,  which 
loosened  the  bonds  that  had  trammeled  men's  minds,  and  encouraged  free 
investigation  and  free  expression.  It  has  three  representatives,  par  excel- 
lence, —  Hooker  of  the  theological  spirit.  Bacon  of  the  philosophical,  and 
Shakespeare  of  the  poetic  and  dramatic.  With  the  last  of  these,  "  the 
most  illustrious  of  the  sons  of  man,"  our  series  of  glimpses  at  English 
literary  history  begins. 

As  even  the  merest  mention  of  all  distinguished  writers  was  obviously 
impracticable,  it  has  been  attempted,  in  the  preparation  of  this  volume,  to 
introduce  those  of  the  number  who  most  faithfully  and  forcibly  represent 
the  several  stages  and  departments  of  English  literature.  In  Shakespeare 
we  see  a  delegate  at  large  from  every  literary  interest  known  in  his  time  ; 
Milton  gives  voice  to  the  thoughtful  and  devout  poetry  of  Puritanism; 
Swift  illustrates  the  power  of  satire  with  a  brilliancy  that  has  never  been 
surpassed ;  Addison  inaugurates  the  revival  of  classicalism  in  literature, 
and  gives  the  world  a  pattern  of  rigid,  though  beautiful,  accuracy  in  style ; 
Johnson  exemplifies  ponderousness  in  matter  and  manner,  and  leaves  a 
lasting  impress  on  English  letters ;  Goldsmith,  more  thoroughly  than  auy 
writer  had  done  before  his  time,  transfuses  himself  into  his  writings, 
reveahng  his  own  gentle,  genial,  and  poetical  nature  in  his  books  with 
almost  unequaled  fidelity  of  portraiture ;  Gibbon,  first  of  all  Englishmen, 
demonstrated  the  power  of  the  historian,  not  only  to  rescue  the  past,  but 
to  mold  the  future.  But  the  catalogue  is  too  long  to  be  thus  continued. 
What  is  here  left  undone,  the  student  may  profitably  do  for  himself,  re- 
cording briefly  his  judgment  of  each  writer  and  specifying  his  distinguisliing 
Services  or  office  in  literature. 

As  helps  to  hi.story,  these  brief  interviews  with  typical  representatives  of 
different  periods  cannot  fail  to  be  valuable.  To  the  epics  of  Homer  we 
are  largely  indebted  for  our  knowledge  of  the  politics,  theology,  and  social 
customs  of  the  Greeks  and  Trojans  ;  and  our  debt  for  similar  acquisitions 
to  English  writers  of  early  times,  though  rarely  acknowledged,  is  even 
greater.  Chaucer  gives  us  pictures  of  a  life  that,  but  for  him,  we  could 
only  imagine,  —  a  life  in  which  rude  ecclesiasticism  held  unquestioned 
dominion.  Dryden  describes  or  suggests  the  vicissitudes  of  religious  faith 
that  were  the  most  conspicuous  feature  of  English  life  in  his  time,  and  the 
I>ervading  corruption  that  demoralized  all  classes.  Coleridge  enlightens  us 
as  to  the  first  movements  of  that  spirit  of  free  inquiry  whose  results  have 


Vm  PREFACE. 

pre-eminently  distinguished  the  nineteenth  century.  It  would  be  easy  to 
enlarge  upon  this  point  if  space  permitted ;  but  a  little  reflection  will  con- 
vince the  intelligent  reader  that  the  literature  of  a  nation  is  its  true  his- 
tory :  it  is  spontaneous  and  unprejudiced,  while  formal  liistorical  narratives 
arc  invariably  colored  by  prejudice,  personal,  political,  or  theological.  If 
Hume's  and  Macaulay's  and  Fronde's  Histories  were  suddenly  destroyed, 
the  sur\'iving  general  literature  of  England  would  afford  ample  materials 
for  their  reconstruction. 

American  Literature  has  a  liberal  representation  in  The  Literaky 
Reader,  which  presents  one  feature  that  may  be  said  to  be  unique ;  that 
is,  its  recognition  of  distinctively  scientific  writers  as  contributors  to  letters. 
In  its  early  days  science  was  dry  and  almost  repellent  to  all  save  its  favored 
students ;  but  its  modern  exponents  have  not  failed  to  see  the  importance  of 
introducing  it  in  an  attractive  guise,  and  the  writings  of  Agassiz,  Tyudall, 
Gray,  Dana,  Maury,  Huxley,  and  others  abound  in  passages  of  marked 
beauty  even  when  judged  according  to  the  standards  of  pure  literature. 
Tliis  feature  of  the  work  seems  to  mark  not  only  a  due  acknowledgment 
of  the  growing  love  for  scientific  study  in  this  country,  but  also  a  welcome 
addition  to  the  treasures  of  literature. 

Wliile  this  work  is  primarily  intended  for  the  use  of  schools,  as  a  text- 
book by  the  use  of  which  the  learner  may  acquire,  simultaneously,  profi- 
ciency in  reading,  and  no  inconsiderable  famiharity  with  what  may  be 
called  the  headlands  of  English  literature,  it  will,  it  is  believed,  also  be 
found  serviceable  by  the  general  reader.  One  who  desires  to  acquaint 
himself  with  the  best  literary  products  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  intellect  will  find 
in  these  pages  a  convenient  and  agreeable  introduction  to  them.  Indeed, 
the  book  may  fitly  be  described  as  a  collection  of  samples  wliich  set  forth 
the  peculiar  qualities  of  the  chief  literary  fabrics  of  England  and  America, 
made  during  nearly  three  hundred  years. 

The  compiler  acknowledges,  with  pleasure,  his  obligations  to  Mr.  S.  R. 

Crocker,  the  accomplished  editor  of  the  Literary  World,  for  much  valuable 

literary  assistance,  and  also  to  Messrs.  James  R.  Osgood  &  Co.,  Messrs. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  Messrs.  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  and  others,  for  their 

courtesy  in  permitting  the  use  of  selections  from  their  copyright  editions 

of  American  writers. 

G.  R.  C. 


CONTENTS. 


ADAM  AND  EVES  MORNING  HYMN Milton 13 

ADDRESS  TO  STUDENTS,  AN Tyndall 860 

AGED  STRANGER,  THE »»"  IIarte 401 

AGRICULTURE Gebelk 253 

AIR  AND  SEA,  THE Uavrx 183 

ALEXANDER  SELKIRK Cowpkr 41 

AMATEUR  WRITERS Holmes 227 

AMERICA   THE  OLD  WORLD Aqassiz 202 

AMERICAN  INDIAN  TRADITIONS  OF  THE  SPIRIT- 
WORLD  Addison 19 

AMERICAN  UNION,  THE Webster B8 

ANNABEL  LEE Pok 246 

ARABIA Gibbon 43 

AUGUSTUS  C;ESAR Merivale 223 

BANNOCKBURN Burns 55 

BAREFOOT  BOY,  THE Wiiittier 218 

BATTLE  OF  BUNKER  HILL Webster 83 

BELFRY  PIGEON,  THE Willis 188 

BELLS,  THE Pok 247 

BOOK  OF  JOB,  THE Froude 319 

BOONDER Bret  Harte 399 

BOY  AND  THE  OWLS,  THE Wordsworth 67 

BROOK.  THE Tenntson 238 

BUGLE  SONG,  THE Tenntson 289 

BURNING  OF  ROME Mkrivalk 229 

CHANGELING,  THE Lowell 339 

CHAR.\CTER  OF  WASHINGTON jEmsRSON 49 

CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE Tenntson 384 

CHARM  OF  THE  RATTLESNAKE SiMMs 190 

CIVIC  BANQUETS  IN  ENGLAND Hawthorne 156 

CLAUDE  MELNOTTE'S  APOLOGY  AND  DEFENSE    .     Lttton 188 

CLOUDS,  THE Roskin      .  .889 

COFFEE  PLANTATION  IN  BRAZIL.  A Aqassiz     .                           .  IW 

COLONIZATION  OF  AMERICA                                   .     .     Prescott 128 

COMING  AND  GOING  ...                                     .     .     Beechrr 896 

COMMON  THOUGHT.  A Timrod 898 


CONTEXTS. 


rONni.TATION  WITH  AMFRTr.V  . 

.      .      BU«KB  

.    .      37 

(  VA  ni    iiii;  (  iiii.iu'.KN,  Tin;    . 

.     .     Mrs.  BKOwiriNo     .    . 

.    .     198 

DAY    IN    I.oMxtN.   A 

.    .    Bayakd  Tatlok    .    . 

.   .    .s:s 

Di;  M)  CALM    IN   Tin:  TROPICS     . 

.      .      COLKRIDGE      .... 

l>i;\I)  HOSE,  A 

.     .     Mrs.  Brown  I. \q     .     . 

.   .    I'jj 

1>I:a1I1  of  ABSALOM 

.     .     Willis 

.     .     ls5 

DEATH  OF  LONG  TOM  COFFIN    . 

.    .    Cooper     .     . 

.    .    m 

DEATH  OF   lllE  FIX)WER8  .     .     . 

.    .    Brtaivt 

.    .    ii(] 

1>KCAY   OF  (  IIIV  \!  li(Mv  vi  \  1  iM 

FNF      .     .     . 

.      Hi  RKE 

.    .     :^y 

DFCl-IoN    AND   \:\\  K(-1  .     .     .     . 

.       .       ^TKl-HENS 

.    .    •:-9 

DECI.AHMTON   ol    1  N  M.I'FN  Hl.Nc 

i:    .     .     .     . 

.      .       I'AIITON       .... 

, 

DESFIU  FD   \  Il.l.\(,!; 

.       .      (iuI.D.xMITII     ... 

^ 

DISA-IFK            

.      .      Lo.KCrELLOW.      .      .      . 

.    .     -Jl;. 

DIXON  11  \  1    IM     ,.  v-i  i.A-      .     . 

I)l'>ro\  Fill    (»1     VMFiUCA     . 

1  r      .... 

.     .       '.)G 

.    .    nr, 

Di^t  o\  \  \[\  (11  nu;  MISSISSIPPI 

i;i\FK     . 

l)ISCO\  ].]\\   OF   rilF  PACIFIC  oci 

.AN.     .     .     . 

.       .       llKI.I-S 

.    .    •■'.■::i 

insMAi-  ^WAMP,  iin; 

.    .    Lykll  

.    .    i:;2 

DK  LYDGATE  

.     .     Geo.  Ei.ioT    .               . 

'■■'■') 

EDITOR,  THE 

.     .     Grlelet    .     . 

.    :'A 

KNC.I.AND 

Shakespeare 

9 

FNOCIl   AUIiFN    vin  i'W  i:i  ,   k  i  m   . 

.       .      TvNNV'r.N 

.     .     238 

F^CI  111  \F,    ir. , 

.      .      .Mi>    I:      . 

.     .     34« 

FXFCl   ITON    (*.       .   .                         M 

TTi:    ,    .    . 

.     .     C.\kLii.t 

.     .     1?1 

FXFCF  IToN   Ol    -li;                         •'   1 

Ill:  .    .    .    . 

■p 

'  ■  ''■  '    '  1!  \ r  \Ni)  \    , ,,  M    .    . 

iii:  niiiii) 

.      .      TllvrKKR.VY     .... 

-.'■7 

o«..'              ' '  "   '^••'I>FIV  .     .     . 

.     .     Emke.son 

.     .     F-.:5 

GRI                                    

.       .       PoPK       

.      .        2i 

Gri.i  -  !,!  \v 

.     .     M.mrt 

.     .     178 

llAMI  F.rs  -Ol 

.     .        6 

UKAD  W1NI>   IN    1  IN     Vi  1  VNTIC 

A     .     .     .     . 

2^} 

inniRF.W  P.A(  F,  TIIF 

.       .       DI.SK.\KLI 

.     .     171 

HERO  OF  Tin:  lu  rcii  UFriBLic 

,  THE.     .     . 

.    .    Motley 

.     .     316 

HISTORIC  PKo(,i;i:-N 

.    .    Motley 

.     .     307 

HOME 

.    .    Goldsmith    .... 

.     .       36 

How  (  !  RTAIX   PLANTS  CAI^FF;, 

.     .    Gray 

.     .     240 

HFMAN    PUoCUi;-^.  THF   I.AW  oF 

.     .     266 

ICHAPOl^  (  RANF 

.     .     Irving 

.     .       89 

IMPoRTANCF  OF  MFTHoD  .     .     . 

^.1 

INDIAN  ADOPTION.  THE      .     .     . 

.     .     Cooper      

.     .     1(9 

INDIAN   >F\^<ACRF.<  OF  THE  EARLY  SETTLERS     . 

i.N Vocation  and  introduction  to  paradise 

LOST 

I  SAW  TTn:i:  wffp 

JOHN  CHINAMAN 

KNOWLEDGE  OF  NATURE   


B.\>CROFT 143 


MiLTO.N 10 

Byko.v 108 

Bret  Hakte 397 

Dana SOI 


CONTENTS.  XI 

KUBLA  KHAN Coleeidge 71 

LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE Tennyson 8S6 

LAST  IIOIRS  OF  LITTLE  PAUL  DOMBEY    ....  Dickens  277 

LAST  MINSTREL,  THE Scott 66 

LAUNCHING  OF  THE  SHIP Lonqfellow 218 

LOCHINVAR:   L.VDY  HERON'S  SONG Scott 67 

LOVE:  A  SONNET Mas.  Browning     .    .    .    .  1»7 

LOVE  OF  COUNTRY Scorr 66 

LOVE  OF  GLORY Scmnkb 268 

LOVER'S,  A,  DREAM  OF  HOME Lvtton 170 

MAIDEN  WITH  A  MILKING-PAIL,  A Jean  Ingelow S76 

MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  .MOURN BtKNS 61 

MAUD  MULLER Whittier 214 

MAY  MORNING Milton 13 

MERCY Shakespeare 8 

MIND,  THE SliAKESPEARE 9 

MODERN  GREECE Byron 10* 

MONTHS,  THE Beecher 294 

MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE Hawthorne 159 

MOTHERS  WAIL,  A Timrod 394 

MY  G.\RDEN  ACQUAINTANCE Lowell 335 

NAPOLEON  BON AP.ARTE Emerson 150 

MGHT  VIEW  OF  A  CITY Carlyle 123 

NOBLE  SAVAGE,  THE Dickens 283 

OCEAN,  THE Byron 106 

OF  .V  THE  AIRTS  THE  WIND  CAN  BLAW  ....  Blr.ns 66 

ON  A  CERTAIN  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS  Lowell 841 

ORIGIN  OF  ROAST-PIG Lamb 79 

OTHELLO'S  SPEECH  TO  THE  SENATE Shakespeare 3 

PAL.\CE,  A,  IN  A  VALLEY Johnson 26 

PATRICK  HENRY  ON  CONCILIATION  WITH  ENG- 

L.\ND Parton 867 

PERFECTION Shakespeare 9 

PHILOSOPHERS  AND  PROJECTORS Dean  Swirr 14 

PICKWICKS  EXTR.\ORDINARY  DILEMMA  ....  Dicke.ns 272 

PILGRIMS  PROGRESS,  BUNYAN'S Macaulat 141 

PLEASURES  OF  KNOWLEDGE Stdnet  Smith 68 

POLONIUS'S  ADVICE  TO  HIS  SON Shakespeare 7 

PRLSEXT  CONDITION  OF  MAN  VINDICATED     .    .  Popb 23 

rRoiiRESS  OF  ENGLAND Macaulay 139 

PSALM  OF  LIFE.  A                               LoNorELLOW 210 

PURITANS.  THE    .                                                       .     .  Macaulat 136 

PURITY  OF  CIIARACTKU  .     .                                        .  Beecher 300 

R.VVEN,  EXTR.VCT  FROM  THE                                      .  Pok 847 

Iu:\niNG .  Helps S86 

lUiloRMER.  THE .  Greeley   .    .  »9 

!::    N  or  TERROR Carlyle 185 


XU  CONTENTS. 

RELIEF  OF  LEYDEN Motley 312 

KETURN  OF  COLUMBUS Pmscott 101 

REVOLUTION                  .                       Lvtton 16i 

ROME Byko> 106 

ROME  AJiD  ST.  PETER'S Bataed  Tatlor    ....  888 

RUTH WOKDSWOSTH 58 

SAGACITY  OF  THE  SPIDER Goldsmith U 

SCIENCE  OF  GOVERNMENT Stdket  Smrn 71 

SCIENTIFIC  EDUCATION Hl-xlet "s; 

SEA,  THE Emeisow 154 

SEVEN  AGES  OF  MAN .                                                      miakespeaee 7 

SEVEN  TIMES  ONE . Jeam  Ixgelow 374 

SEVERED  FRIENDSHIP Coleridge 78 

SHADED  WATER,  THE Simms 193 

SHIP  OF  STATE,  THE LoKorELLOW 210 

SHIPWRECK,  THE iJtKOW 103 

SLEEP Mis.  Beow.mm.     ....  196 

SOLITARY  REAPER,  THE                         Wordsworth 61 

SPRING Timrod 393 

STORMING  THE  TEMPLE  OF  MLXICO Prescott 131 

STUDY  OF  LANGUAGE Mrs.  Le  Vert 344 

SURRENDER  OF  GRENADA Ltttom 165 

THANATOPSIS Brtawt 117 

THE  MAJORS  ADVICE  TO  HIS  NEPHEW    ....     Thacrerat 261 

TO  A  W.VTERFOWL BRiAirr 119 

TOMB  OF  ROBERT  BRUCE Scott 65 

TYRANNY  OF  MISS  ASPHYXIA Mrs.  Stowe •2^4 

UNDER  THE  VIOLETS Holmes 2:32 

VALLEY  AND  CITY  OF  MEXICO Prescott 126 

WASHINGTON,  EUXOGIUM  ON Webster 85 

WATER Rlsrin 329 

WELUNGTON,  EULOGIUM  ON     .     .     .^ Disraeli 174 

WINNING  OF  JULIET Shakespeare 3 

WINTER Whittier 221 

WIT  AND  WISDOM Std.ney  Smith 70 

WOLSEY  ON  THE  VICISSITUDES  OF  LIFE  ....     Shakespeare 5 

WORLDLY  PICTURE,  A George  Eliot 362 

WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS Losgpellow 207 

YUSSOUF Lowell 338 


VOCABULARY 403 

DICTIONARY  OF  AUTHORS 413 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Addison,  Joseph 19 

AoASsiz,  Louis  J.  U 199 

Banckoft,  George 143 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward 294 

Browning,  Mrs 195 

Bryant,  "William  Cullen 116 

Burns,  Robert 51 

Burke,  Edmund 37 

Byron,  Lord 102 

Carlyle,  Thomas 121 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor 72 

Cooper,  James  Fenimore 109 

CowpER,  "William 41 

Dana,  James  D 301 

Dickens,  Charles 272 

Disraeli,  Benjamin 171 

Eliot,  George 355 

Emerson,  Ralph  "Waldo 150 

Froude,  James  Anthony 317 

Greeley,  Horace 251 

Gibbon,  Edward 43 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 31 

Gray,  Asa 240 

Harte,  Bret 897 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniei 155 

Helps,  Sir  Arthur 823 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell 227 

Huxley,  Thomas  H 887 

Lnoelow,  Jean 374 

Irving,  WAsniNGTf)N 89 

jKPrKRsoN,  Thomas 49 

Johnson,  Samuel 26 

Lamb,  Charles 79 

Lb  Veet,  Mrs.  Octatia  Walton 344 


XIV  INDEX   OP  AUTHORS. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth 207 

Lowell,  James  Russell 335 

Lyell,  Sir  Charles 132 

Lytton,  Lord  (Bulwee) 162 

Macaulay,  T.  B.  (Lord) 136 

Maury,  Matthew  Foxtaint: 178 

Merivale,  Charles 222 

Milton,  John 10 

Motley,  John  Lothrop 307 

Parton,  James 367 

PoE,  Edgar  Allan 245 

Pope,  Alexander 23 

Prescott,  William  II 126 

RusKiN,  John 329 

Scott,  Sir  Walter 63 

Shakespeare,  William 1 

SIMMS,  William  Gilmork 190 

Smith,  Sydney 68 

Stephens,  Alexander  H 289 

Stowe,  Mrs.  Harriet  Beecher. 284 

Sumner,  Charles 266 

Swift,  Dean 14 

Taylor,  Bayard 378 

Tennyson,  Alfred 234 

Thackeray,  W.  M 257 

Timrod,  Henry 392 

Tyndall,  John 350 

Webster,  Daniel 83 

Whittier,  John  Grbenleaf 214 

Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker 185 

Wordsworth,  William 57 


Cathcart's  Literary  Reader. 


SHAKESPEARE. 

1564- 1616. 

William  Shaxzsfeau,  dramatist  and  po«t,  was  born  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  England,  in 
\pril,  15M.  Of  his  early  life  almost  nothing  is  known.  It  is  believed  that  he  was  a  student 
111  the  free  school  at  Stratford,  and  that  in  his  youth  he  assisted  his  father  in  tlie  latter's  busi- 
ness, which  was  that  of  a  wool-dealer  and  glover.  That  he  formally  entered  upon  any  dertuite 
railing  we  have  no  proof;  but  critics  have  found  evidence  in  his  writings  of  his  familiarity  with 
various  professions :  Malone,  one  of  his  acutest  commentators,  firmly  insisted  that  Shake3))eare 
was  a  lawyer's  clerk.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  married  Anne  Hathaway,  then  eight  years  his 
senior.  Of  this  union  only  a  vague  report  that  it  proved  uncongenial  has  come  down  to  us.  In 
1586  or  13'<7  Shakespeare  secniB  to  liave  gone  to  I/ondon,  and  two  years  later  app«irs  as  one  of 
the  propnrtors  of  the  Blackfriars  Theater.  In  the  few  years  next  following  he  became  known 
as  a  playwright,  and  in  159.1  he  published  his  first  poem,  Venus  and  Adonis.  The  dates  of  publi- 
cation of  his  plays  arc  not  settled  beyond  doubt ;  but  the  best  authorities  place  Henry  VI.  first 
and  The  Tempest  last,  all  included  between  1589  and  1611.  Shakespeare  was  an  actor  as  well  as 
a  writer  of  plays,  and  remained  on  the  stage  certainly  as  late  as  1003.  Two  years  later  he 
bou;.'!it  a  handsome  house  at  Stratford,  and  livetl  therein,  enjoying  the  friendship  and  respect  of 
his  neighbors  till  his  death  in  1616. 

Meager  as  is  the  foregoing  sketch,  it  yet  emboilies,  with  a  few  trifling  exceptions,  all  the  known 
facts  as  to  Shakespeare's  life.  A  mist  seems  to  have  settled  over  "  the  most  illustrious  of  the 
sons  of  man,"  almost  wholly  hiding  his  personality  from  curious  and  admiring  posterity.  Of 
many  of  his  contemporary  writers,,  and  of  some  who  preceded  him,  comparatively  full  particulars 
have  come  down  to  us.  Edmund  Spenser  stands  out  conspicuous  among  the  bright  lights  of 
the  Elizabethan  age  ;  the  genial  face  and  the  personal  habits  of  "  rare  Ben  Jonson  "  are  almost 
familiar  to  us  ,  and  even  of  Chaucer,  the  father  of  English  literature,  we  possess  a  reasonably 
.distinrt  jwrtraiture  ;  but  Shakespeare,  Ike  tnan,  is  lost  to  us  in  the  darkness  of  the  past  In  hit 
works,  however,  he  lives,  and  will  live  while  written  recortls  survive. 

The  name  of  Shakespeare  is  so  pre-eminently  famous,  standing  out  in  the  firmament  of  litera- 
ture "like  the  moon  among  the  lesser  stars,"  that  no  attempt  to  ronvcy  an  idea  of  his  greatness 
seems  to  be  nccessar)-  here.  We  content  ourselves,  therefore,  with  quoting  the  opinions  of  a  few 
of  tbo^e  who  have  l>ecn  worthy  to  judge  him. 

Dr  Samuel  Johnson  says :  "  The  stream  of  time,  which  it  eontinoally  washing  the  disaolrable 
f.iliru*  of  other  poet*,  passes  without  injury  by  the  adamant  of  Shakespeare." 

ThMiim*  1)(  Qiiiii.-ey  says :  "  In  the  gravest  sense  it  may  be  nfflrmetl  of  Shakespeare  that  he  is 
amont?  the  iiKxleni  luxuries  of  life  ;  it  was  his  prerogative  to  have  thought  more  finely  and  more 
extensively  than  all  other  poets  combined." 

Ix>rd  Jeffrey  says :  "  More  full  of  wisdom  and  ridicnle  and  sagaeity  than  all  the  moraltsta  that 
ever  existed,  he  is  more  wild.  air>-,  and  inventive,  and  more  pathetic  and  fantastic,  than  all  the 
poets  of  all  regions  and  ages  of  the  world." 

Lord  Maoiulay  pronounced  Shakespeare  "  the  greatest  poet  that  ever  bved,"  and  ( 
1  A 


Othello,  the  play  from  which  our  first  selection  is  takeu,  as  "  perhaps  the  greatest  work  in  the 
world." 

Thomas  Carlylc  bears  this  characteristic  testimony  :  "  Of  this  Shakespeare  of  ours,  perhaps  the 
opinion  one  sometimes  hears  a  little  idolatrously  expressed  is.  in  fact,  the  right  one  ;  I  think  the 
best  judgment  is  slowly  pointing  to  the  conclusion  that  Shakespeare  is  the  chief  of  all  poets 
hitherto,  the  greatest  intellect  who,  m  our  recorded  world,  has  left  record  of  himself  in  tlic  way 
of  literature.  On  the  wholr,  1  know  not  such  a  power  of  vision,  such  a  faculty  of  thought,  if  we 
take  all  the  characters  of  it,  in  any  other  man.  Such  a  calmness  of  depth,  placid,  joyous  strength, 
all  things  imaged  in  that  great  soul  of  his  so  true  and  clear,  as  in  a  tranquil,  unfathomable  sea !  " 


OTHELLO'S  SPEECH  TO  THE  SENATE. 
Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors, 
My  very  noble  and  approved  good  masters,  — 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  ohl  man's  daughter, 
It  is  most  true  ;  true,  I  have  married  her ; 
The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending  ^ 
Hath  tliis  extent,  no  more.     Rude  am  I  in  speech, 
And  little  blessed  with  the  set  phrase  of  peace ; 
For  since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years'  pith. 
Till  now  some  nine  moons  wasted,  they  have  used 
Their  dearest  action  in  the  tented  field  ; 
And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I  speak. 
More  than  pertains  to  feats  of  broil  and  battle ; 
And  therefore  little  shall  I  grace  my  cause 
In  speaking  for  myself.     Yet,  by  your  gracious  patience, 
I  will  a  round  unvarnished  tale  deliver 
Of  my  whole  course  of  love  ;  what  drugs,  what  charms. 
What  conjuration,  and  what  mighty  magic 
(Por  such  proceeding  I  am  charged  withal), 
I  won  his  daughter  with. 

Her  father  loved  me  ;  oft  invited  me ; 

Still  questioned  me  the  story  of  my  life. 

From  year  to  year  ;  the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes. 

That  I  have  passed. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days. 

To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it. 

Wherein  I  spake  of  most  disastrous  chances, 

Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field, 

Of  hair-breadth  'scapes  i'  the  imminent  deadly  breach  ; 

Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe. 

And  sold  to  slavery ;  of  my  redemption  thence, 


SHA&ESPEABE. 

And  portance  in  my  travel's  history  ; 

Wherein  of  antres  vast,  anil  deserts  idle, 

Rough  (pian-ies,  rocks,  and  hills  whose  heads  touch  heaven. 

It  was  my  hint  to  spwik  ;  —  such  was  the  process ;  — 

And  of  the  cannibals  that  each  other  eat. 

The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 

Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders.     This  to  hear, 

Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline  : 

But  still  the  house  affairs  would  draw  her  thence  ; 

Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  despatch. 

She  'd  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 

Devour  up  my  discourse  :  which  I  observing, 

Took  once  a  pliant  hour,  and  found  good  means 

To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart. 

That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate, 

Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard. 

But  not  intent ively.     I  did  consent ; 

And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears, 

When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke 

That  my  youth  suffered.     My  story  being  done, 

She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs : 

She  swore —  In  faith,  't  was  strange,  't  was  passing  strange ; 

'T  was  pitiful,  't  was  wondrous  pitiful : 

She  wished  she  had  not  heard  it ;  yet  she  wished 

That  Heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man  :  she  thanked  me ; 

And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  loved  her, 

I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story. 

And  that  would  woo  her.     Upon  this  hint,  I  spake : 

She  loved  me 'for  the  dangers  I  had  passed ; 

And  I  loved  her,  that  she  did  pity  them. 

This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  used. 

THE  wnnnNO  of  jtjliet.* 

Juliet.    Thou  know'st  the  mask  of  night  is  on  my  face : 
Else  would  a  maiden  blush  bepaint  my  cheek, 
For  that  which  thou  hast  heard  me  speak  to-night. 

•  An  fxtrwt  from  tlw  VoTe  fcene  in  the  pirdni.  in  the  play  of  Bomfo  amd  Jnliel. 
unbtucad^  at  night,  h  diaoorered  by  Jnliet  listening  to  her  declaration  of  lore  for  him. 


CATHUAKl  S     l-llhUAUY     READER. 

Fain  would  I  dwell  on  form,  fain,  fain  deny 
What  I  have  spoke  :  but  farewell  compliment ! 
Dost  thou  love  me  ?     I  know  thou  wilt  say,  Ay  : 
And  I  will  take  thy  word ;  yet,  if  thou  swear  st. 
Thou  mayst  prove  false ;  at  lovers'  perjuries, 
They  say,  Jove  laughs.     O  gentle  Komeo, 
If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faithfully  : 
Or  if  thou  think'st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 
I  *11  frown  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay, 
So  thou  wilt  woo  ;  but  else,  not  for  the  world. 
In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I  am  too  fond  ; 
And  therefore  thou  mayst  think  my  'havior  light. 
But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I  '11  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange. 
I  should  have  been  more  strange,  I  must  confess, 
But  that  thou  overheard'st,  ere  I  was  'ware. 
My  true  love's  passion  :  therefore  pardon  me ; 
And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  light  love. 
Which  the  dark  night  hath  so  discovered. 

Romeo.    Lady,  by  yonder  blessed  moon  I  swear. 
That  tips  with  silver  all  these  fruit-tree  tops  — 

Juliet.   O,  swear  not  by  the  moon,  the  inconstant  moon. 
That  monthly  changes  in  her  circled  orb, 
Lest  that  thy  love  prove  likewise  variable. 

Romeo.  What  shall  I  swear  by  ? 

Juliet.  Do  not  swe^r  at  all, 

Or,  if  thou  wilt,  swear  by  thy  gracious  self. 
Which  is  the  god  of  my  idolatry. 
And  I  '11  believe  thee.  * 

Romeo.  If  my  heart's  dear  love  — 

Juliet.  Well,  do  not  swear :  although  I  joy  in  thee, 
I  have  no  joy  of  this  contract  to-night ; 
It  is  too  rash,  too  unadvised,  too  sudden  : 
Too  like  the  lightning,  which  doth  cease  to  be 
Ere  one  can  say,  It  lightens.     Sweet,  good  night ! 
This  bud  of  love,  by  summer's  ripening  breath, 
May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  when  next  we  meet. 
Good  night,  good  night !  as  sweet  repose  and  rest 
Come  to  thy  heart,  as  that  within  my  breast ! 


SUAKESPEAEE. 

Romeo.    O,  wilt  thou  leave  me  so  unsatisfied  ? 

Juliet.   What  satisfaction  canst  thou  have  to-night? 

Romeo.  Tlie  exchange  of  thy  love's  faithful  vow  for  mine. 

Juliet.   I  gave  thee  mine  before  thou  didst  request  it : 
And  yet  I  would  it  were  to  give  again. 

Romeo.   Wouldst  thou  withdraw  it  ?  for  what  purpose,  love? 

Juliet.    But  to  be  frank,  and  give  it  thee  again. 
And  yet  I  wish  but  for  the  thing  I  have  : 
My  bounty  is  as  boundless  as  the  sea, 
My  love  as  deep ;  the  more  I  give  to  thee, 
The  more  I  have,  for  both  are  infinite. 


WOLSEY  ON  THE  VICISSITUDES  OF  LIFE.* 

Farewell,  a  long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness. 
This  is  the  stjite  of  man  ;  to-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope,  to-morrow  blossoms, 
And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him ; 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost ; 
And,  when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a-ripening,  —  nips  his  root. 
And  then  he  falls,  as  I  do.     I  have  ventured, 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders, 
This  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory  ; 
But  far  Ix^yond  my  depth  ;  my  high-blown  pride 
At  length  broke  under  me ;  and  now  has  left  me, 
AVeary,  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream,  that  nmst  forever  hide  me. 
Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye  ; 
I  feel  my  heart  new  opened  :  O,  how  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man  that  hangs  on  princes'  favors ! 
There  is,  Ix'twixt  that  .smile  we  would  aspire  to. 
That  sweet  aspt^ct  of  princes,  and  their  ruin, 
More  pangs  and  fears,  than  wars  or  women  have ; 
And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  Lucifer, 
Never  to  hope  again. 

•  Cardinal  Wobey  wm  ooe  of  the  hig hfst  offleen  of  King  Henry  VITI.  of  England.  Bdng 
taddealy  deprived  of  all  hit  honora  by  the  king,  and  conacqaenUy  diagnced,  Shakespeare  rep- 
reMBta  hin  aa  uttering  thia  tpeerh  on  retiring  froni  office. 


CATHCAlil  b    LITERARY    READER. 


HAMLET'S   SOLILOQUY. 

To  be,  or  not  to  be,  —  that  is  the  question  :  — 

Whether  't  is  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 

The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune ; 

Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles. 

And,  by  opposing,  end  them  ?  —  To  die,  —  to  sleep,  — 

No  more  ;  —  and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 

The  heart-ache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 

That  flesh  is  heir  to,  —  't  is  a  consummation 

Devoutly  to  be  wished.     To  die  ;  —  to  sleep  ;  — 

To  sleep !  perchance  to  dream  ;  —  ay,  there  's  the  rub  : 

For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come, 

When  we  have  shuffled  off"  this  mortal  coil. 

Must  give  us  pause  ;  there 's  the  respect 

Tliat  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life  : 

For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 

The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 

The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay. 

The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 

That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes. 

When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 

With  a  bare  bodkin  ?  who  would  fardels  bear. 

To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life  ; 

But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death,  — 

The  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn 

No  traveler  returns,  —  puzzles  the  will ; 

And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have, 

Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 

Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all ; 

And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 

Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought ; 

And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment. 

With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  awry. 

And  lose  the  name  of  action. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


POLONITIS'S  ADVICE  TO  HIS  SON. 

Give  thy  thoughts  no  tongue. 
Nor  any  unproportioned  tliought  his  act. 
Be  thou  familiar,  but  by  no  means  vulgar. 
The  friends  thou  hast,  and  their  adoption  tried. 
Grapple  them  to  thy  soul  with  hooks  of  steel ; 
But  do  not  dull  thy  palm  with  entertainment 
Of  each  new-hatched,  unfledged  comrade.     Beware 
Of  entrance  to  a  quarrel ;  but,  being  in, 
Bear  it,  that  the  opposer  may  beware  of  thee. 
Give  every  man  thine  ear,  but  few  thy  voice : 
Take  each  man's  censure,  but  reserve  thy  judgment. 
Costly  thy  habit  as  thy  purse  can  buy, 
But  not  expressed  in  fancy ;  rich,  not  gaudy  ; 
For  the  apparel  oft  proclaims  the  man  ; 
And  they  in  France,  of  the  best  rank  and  station. 
Are  most  select  and  generous,  chief  in  that. 
Neither  a  borrower  nor  a  lender  be  : 
For  loan  oft  loses  both  itself  and  friend  ; 
And  borrowing  dulls  the  edge  of  husbandry. 
This  above  all,  —  to  thine  own  self  b(;  true  ; 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day. 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man. 
Farewell ;  my  blessing  season  this  in  thee. 


THE  SEVEN  AGES  OF  MAN. 

All  the  world  's  a  stage, 
And. all  the  men  and  women  merely  players : 
They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances  ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages.     At  first,  the  Infant, 
Mewling  and  puking  in  the  nurse's  arms. 
And  then,  the  whining  School-boy,  with  his  satchel, 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail 
Unwillingly  to  school.     And  then,  the  Lover, 
Sighing  like  furnace,  %vith  a  woful  Ixdlad 
Made  to  his  mistress*  eyebrow.     Then  a  Soldier ; 


CATHCART^S    LITERARY    READER. 

Full  of  strange  oaths,  and  Ixardfd  like  tlic  p;ird, 

Jealous  ill  lioiior,  sudden  and  {[iiick  in  ([uarrd, 

Seeking  the  bubble  rL-piitation 

Even  in  the  cannon's  nioutli.     And  then,  the  Justice, 

In  fair  round  belly,  with  good  capon  lined, 

With  eyes  severe,  and  beard  of  formal  cut. 

Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances  ; 

And  so  he  plays  his  part.     The  sixth  age  shifts 

Into  tile  lean  and  slippiTrd  i'antaloon, 

AVitli  spectacles  on  nose,  and  pouch  on  side; 

Ills  youthful  hose,  well  saved,  a  world  too  wide 

For  his  shrunk  shank  ;  and  his  biL:  manly  voice, 

Turninir  aiirain  toward  cliildish  treble,  pipes 

And  wlii>tles  in  his  sound.     Last  scene  of  all. 

That  ends  this  strange  eventful  iiistory, 

Is  second  childishness  and  mere  oblivion, 

Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  every  thing. 

MEECY. 

The  quality  of  Mercy  is  not  strained  ; 

It  droppcth,  as  the  pintle  rain  from  lieaven, 

Upon  ihe  })laee  beneath.      It  is  twice  hh  >sed  ; 

It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes. 

'T  is  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 

The  tlironed  monarch  better  than  his  ercjw  n. 

His  scepter  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power. 

The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 

"Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings ; 

But  mercy  is  above  this  sccptered  sway, — 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 

It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself: 

And  earthly  power  doth  then  sliow  likest  God's, 

When  mercy  sca>,)iis  ju>tice.     Therefore,  Jew, 

Thouirh  justice  be  thy  ple^i,  consider  this, — 

That,  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 

Should  see  salvation.     We  do  pray  for  mercy  ; 

And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 


SHAKESPEARE. 


ENGLAND. 


This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  sceptered  isle, 

This  earth  of  majesty,  this  seat  of  Mars, 

This  other  Eden,  demi-paradise ; 

This  fortress,  built  by  Nature  for  herself. 

Against  infection  and  the  hand  of  war ; 

This  happy  breed  of  men,  this  little  world  ; 

This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea, 

Which  serves  it  in  the  office  of  a  wall, 

Or  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a  house. 

Against  the  envy  of  less  happier  lands, 

This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  England. 


THE    MIND. 

For  't  is  the  mind  that  makes  the  body  rich  : 
And  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the  darkest  clouds. 
So  honor  peereth  in  the  meanest  habit. 
What !  is  the  jay  more  precious  than  the  lark. 
Because  his  feathers  are  more  beautiful  ? 
Or  is  the  adder  better  than  the  eel, 
Because  his  painted  skin  contents  the  eyes  ? 
O  no,  good  Kate  :  neither  art  thou  the  worse 
For  this  poor  furniture  and  mean  array. 


PERFECTION. 

To  gild  refin(?d  gohl,  to  |j!iint  the  lily. 

To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet, 

To  smooth  the  ice,  or  add  another  hue 

Unto  the  rainbow,  or  with  taper-light 

To  seek  the  beauteous  eye  of  heaven  to  garnish, 

Is  wasteful  and  ridiculous  excess. 


10  CATHCAET's    LITERAEY    EEADEE. 

MILTON. 

1608- 1674. 

John  Mii-to!»  — (ri«n»«  */  renfrabile  tumen—vrta  born  in  London  in  December,  1608,  and 
died  November,  1674.  He  waa  the  son  of  John  Milton,  a  respectable  scrivener.  The  younger 
John  entered  Christ's  College,  Cambridge,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  and  became  distinguished  during 
his  University  career  for  his  brilliant  poetical  abilities.  lie  was  destined  for  the  service  of  tlie 
Church  ;  but,  on  arriving  at  manhood,  he  found  —  to  quote  his  own  words  —  "  what  tyranny 
bad  invaded  the  Church,  and  that  he  who  would  take  orders  must  subscribe  Slave."  He 
therefore  turned  bis  thoughts  to  the  law,  but  soon  abandoned  it,  and  gave  his  undivided  atten- 
tion to  literature.  The  death  of  his  mother,  in  1637,  affected  his  health,  and  he  sought  to  restore 
it  by  travel.  He  visited  several  continental  countries,  and,  while  in  Italy,  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Galileo.  Returning  to  England  in  16:^9,  he  found  the  nation  in  a  fever  of  political  ex- 
citement, and  lost  no  time  in  declaring  himself  with  reference  to  the  momentous  questiuns  then 
under  discussion.  In  1641  and  16t'2  he  published  his  first  polemical  treatises,  which  made  a 
profound  impression.  In  1643  be  was  married  to  Mary  Powell ;  but  the  union,  like  Shake- 
speare's, proved  a  rather  unhappy  one.  The  lady  was  volatile,  and  fond  of  gayety,  and  her 
family  were  enthusiastic  Royalists,  while  Milton  waa  a  stem  Puritan.  Soon  after  the  marriage 
a  separation  took  phice ;  but  at  last  a  reconciliation  was  effected,  and  the  partnership  was  re- 
newed. Several  of  his  political  pamphlets  brought  Milton  into  prominence,  and  led  to  his  being 
appointed,  in  1649,  Latin  Secretary  to  the  Council  of  State,  which  office  he  held  eight  years. 
During  that  period  he  wrote  bis  famous  EikomokloiUs,  and  several  other  books.  In  1653  his 
wife  died,  and  three  years  later  he  married  again,  finding,  it  is  believed,  real  happiness  in  his 
new  relation.  In  1660  the  monarchy  was  re-established,  and  thenceforward  be  took  no  con- 
spicuous part  in  politics.  Having  lost  bis  aeoond  wife,  be  took  a  third  in  1664,  who  survived 
him  nearly  fifty  years,  dying  in  1727. 

His  most  famous  composition,  Paradise  Lost,  was  written  after  be  had  become  totally  blind, 
which  happened  in  1652,  it  being  dictated  to  his  daughter.  It  is  worthy  of  note  that  the  whole 
remuneration  received  by  the  poet  and  his  family  for  this  poem,  which  ranks  among  the  grand- 
est in  the  world,  was  only  twenty -eight  pounds,  about  one  hundred  and  forty  dollars. 

Paradise  Lost  represents  the  only  successful  attempt  ever  made  to  construct  a  drama  whose 
principal  personages  are  supernatural ;  in  this  character  it  stands  alwve  others  unapproached. 
To  the  student  it  offers  a  field  whose  exploration  never  ceases  to  be  delightful  and  remunerative. 
It  is  the  finest  flower  of  one  of  the  greatest  minds  that  ever  commanded  the  reverence  of  the 
world ;  and  in  design,  if  not  in  execution,  is  the  noblest  poetical  product  of  human  genius. 

THE  INVOCATION  AND   INTEODUCTION  TO  PAEADISE  LOST. 

Of  man's  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our  woe, 
With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  <?reater  Man 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat, 
Sing,  heavenly  Muse,  that  on  the  secret  top 
Of  Oreb,  or  of  Sinai,  didst  inspire 
That  shepherd,  who  first  taught  the  chosen  seed, 
In  the  beginning  how  the  Heavens  and  Earth 
Rose  out  of  Chaos  :  or,  if  Sion  hill 


HILTON.  11 

Delight  thee  more,  and  Siloa*s  brook  that  flowed 
Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God,  I  thence 
Invoke  thy  aid  to  ray  adventurous  song, 
That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar 
Above  the  Aonian  mount,  while  it  pursues 
Things  unatteuipted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme. 
And  chiefly  thou,  O  Spirit,  that  dost  prefer 
Before  all  temples  the  upright  heart  and  pure. 
Instruct  me,  for  thou  know'st ;  thou  from  the  flrst 
Wast  present,  and,  with  mighty  wings  outspread, 
r)ove-like  sat'st  brooding  on  the  vast  abyss. 
And  matl'st  it  pregnant :  what  in  me  is  dark 
Illumine  ;  what  is  low  raise  and  support ; 
That  to  the  height  of  this  great  argument 
I  may  assert  eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  man. 

S{iy  first,  for  Heaven  hides  nothing  from  thy  view. 
Nor  the  deep  tract  of  Hell ;  say  first,  what  cause 
Moved  our  grand  parents,  in  tliat  happy  state, 
Favored  of  Heaven  so  highly,  to  full  off 
From  their  Creator,  and  transgress  his  will. 
For  one  restraint,  lords  of  the  world  besides  ? 
Who  first  seduced  them  to  that  foul  revolt  ? 
The  infernal  serpent ;  he  it  was,  whose  guile. 
Stirred  up  with  envy  and  revenge,  deceivetl 
The  mother  of  mankind,  what  time  his  pride 
Had  cast  him  out  from  Heaven,  with  all  his  host 
Of  rebel  angels  ;  by  whose  aid,  aspiring 
To  set  himself  in  glory  above  his  peers. 
He  trusted  to  have  equaled  the  Most  High, 
If  he  opposed  ;  and,  with  ambitious  aim 
Against  the  throne  and  monarchy  of  God, 
Raised  impious  war  in  Heaven,  and  Iwttle  proud. 
With  vain  attempt.     Him  the  Almighty  power 
Hurled  headlong  flaming  from  the  ethereal  sky, 
With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion,  down 
To  bottomless  perdition  ;  tliere  to  dwell 
In  adamantine  chains  and  penal  fire. 
Who  durst  defy  the  Omnipotent  to  arms. 


12  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

ADAM  AND  EVE'S  MORNING  HYMN. 

These  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  good, 

A]rni;^^litv  !    Tliiiie  this  uiiivrrsal  frame, 

Thus  vvoiulrous  fair;    Tlisxll  how  wondrous  then! 

Unspeakable,  who  sit'st  above  these  heavens 

To  n?  iTivi^^ililc,  or  dimly  seen 

hi  ihisi  ihv  h)\srst  works;  yet  these  declare 

Thy  goodness  Ix-vond  thouirht,  and  power  divine. 

Speak,  ye  who  Ix-st  can  ttll,  y  sons  of  light. 

Angels  ;  for  y  1m  hoUl  him,  and  with  songs 

And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night, 

Cirele  his  throne  rejoicing ;  ye,  in  Heaven  : 

On  I'.arth  join,  all  ye  creatniv<.  to  t  xtol 

Him  tirst,  him  last,  him  midst,  and  without  end. 

Pairest  of  stors,  last  in  the  train  of  night, 

If  Intt.r  tliou  l)rh)iiL^  not  to  tlif  (hiwii, 

iSmc  pK'dL'-c  ()f(hiv,  tli;.t  i  rown'.-t  the  sniilinir  "Morn 

With  tliy  l)riuiit  «ircltt,  praise  liini  in  tliy  sjjhcrc. 

While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 

Thou  Sun,  of  this  great  world  both  eye  and  soul. 

Acknowledge  him  thy  greater  ;  sound  his  jiraise 

In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climb'st. 

And  when  high  noon  hast  gained,  and  when  thou  fall'st. 

Moon,  that  now  meet'st  thi  orient  Sun,  now  fly'st. 

With  the  fixed  stars,  fixed  in  tlieir  orb  that  flies; 

And  ye  five  other  wandtrin^i:  tires,  that  move 

In  mystic  dance  not  without  song,  resound 

His  praise,  who  out  of  darkness  called  up  light. 

Air,  and  ye  elenients.  the  ehh^sr  Itirtli 

Of  Nature's  womb,  that  in  cpiaternion  run. 

Perpetual  circle,  mnltiforni  ;  and  mix 

And  nourish  all  thinus  :   ]ct  yonr  ceaseless  change 

Vary  to  our  great  ^laker  still  new  praise. 

Ye  mists  and  exhalations,  that  now  rise 

From  hill  or  steaniii^p:  lake.  (ln>ky  or  irray. 

Till  the  Sun  paint  yonr  tle(\  y  skirts  with  gold, 

In  honor  to  the  Avorld's  n:reat  Author  rise; 

Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  the  nncolored  skv. 


MILTON.  13 

Or  wet  the  thirsty  Earth  with  falling  showers. 

Rising  or  falling  still  advance  his  praise. 

His  praise,  ye  winds,  that  from  four  quarters  blow, 

J^rwithe  soft  or  loud  ;  and  wave  your  tops,  ye  pines, 

With  every  })lant,  in  sign  of  worship,  wave. 

Fountiiins,  and  ye  that  warble  as  ye  flow. 

Melodious  murmurs,  warbling  tune  his  praise. 

Join  voices,  all  ye  living  souls  :  ye  birds, 

That  singing  up  to  Heaven-gate  ascend, 

]ifar  on  your  wings  and  in  your  notes  his  praise. 

Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 

The  earth,  and  stately  tread,  or  lowly  creep ; 

Witness  if  I  be  silent,  morn  or  even. 

To  hill  or  valley,  fountain  or  fresh  shade. 

Made  vocal  by  my  song,  and  taught  his  praise. 

Hail,  universal  Lord,  be  bounteous  still 

To  give  us  only  good  ;  and  if  the  night 

Have  gathered  aught  of  evil  or  concealed. 

Disperse  it,  as  now  light  dispels  the  dark  ! 

KAT  M0SNIN6. 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger. 
Comes  dancing  from  the  East,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip,  and  the  pale  primrose. 

Hail  bounteous  May  !  that  dost  inspire 

Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire  ; 

Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing. 

Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song. 
And  welcome  thee  and  wish  thee  long. 


How  charming  is  divine  philosophy  ! 

Not  harsh  and  cnd)bed,  as  dull  fools  suppose. 

But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute. 

And  a  perpetual  feast  of  nectared  sweets, 

Where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns. 


14  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

DEAN  SWIFT. 
1667-1745. 

Jonathan  Swift,  commonlj  known  as  Dean  Swift,  was  born  in  Dublin,  in  Norember,  18«7, 
and  died  in  October,  1745.  He  was  not  proud  of  bis  native  land,  but  emphatically  declared  that 
his  birth  in  Ireland  was  a  "  perfect  accident,"  and  lost  no  opportunity  of  reviling  that  country. 
At  Dublin  University,  where  he  was  matriculated.  Swift  distinguished  himself  l)y  his  coutcmpt 
for  college  laws,  and  neglect  of  his  studies  ;  and  (Mily  by  special  grace  did  he  receive  his  degree 
of  B.  A.,  in  168S.  He  entered  the  family  of  Sir  William  Temple  in  the  capacity  of  secretary- ;  in 
the  sanie  household  "  Stella,"  immortalized  in  Swift's  books,  was  a  waiting-maid.  King  William 
took  a  fimcy  to  Swift  on  account  of  the  letter's  services  in  making  the  sovereign  acquainted  with 
asparagus,  and  offered  him  the  command  of  a  troop  of  horse.  But  the  favor  was  declined. 
In  16&4  Swift  was  admitted  to  deacon's  orders,  and  a  few  years  later  went  tu  Ireland  as  chap- 
lain to  Lord  Berkeley.  Here  he  occupied  various  ecclesiastical  offices,  and  in  1713  was  made 
Dean  of  St.  Patrick's.  He  began  his  career  in  literature  as  a  writer  of  political  tracts,  and  was 
secretly  employed  by  the  government  to  write  in  its  behalf.  In  1704  he  published  T%e  Tale 
of  a  Tuh.  From  titat  time  till  1735  he  was  a  resident  of  England,  and  mainly  engaged  in 
political  controversy.  In  1726  appeared  Gmllieer't  Trutela,  and  at  frequent  intervals  thereaf- 
ter, his  other  writings,  prose  and  poetry.  In  1740  be  evinced  the  first  symptoms  of  the  madness 
which  clouded  his  ck>sing  years.  The  story  of  his  life  is  a  sad  one,  and  goes  f»x  to  encourage  the 
belief  that  sometimes,  if  not  always,  retribution  comes  w  this  life  upon  the  wrong-doer.  Swift's 
career  was  supremely  selfish  ;  nothing  was  suffered  to  stand  in  the  way  of  his  interest  and 
gratification ;  ever)body  feared  him,  and  nobody,  save  the  three  women  whose  names  he  lias 
linked  with  his  own,  and  whose  unfaltering  affection  he  requited  so  brutally,  —  with  these  excep- 
tions, nobody  lored  him.  His  hfe  furnishes  an  impressive  lesson,  the  gist  of  which  is,  that  a 
man  cannot  make  himself  happy  by  exclusive  devotion  to  himself. 

As  to  Swift's  rank  as  a  writer  it  is  not  easy  to  define  it ;  but  of  his  extraordinary  abilities  there 
is  no  chance  for  doubt.  He  was,  perhaps,  the  greatest  master  of  satire  tliat  has  ever  written 
the  English  language.  His  originality  is  remarkable ;  no  writer  of  his  time,  probably,  borrowed 
so  little  from  his  predecessors  ;  and  his  versatility  —  for  he  succeeded  in  evcr>-  department  of 
literature  that  he  attempted  — is  not  less  wonderful.  All  things  considered,  his  Gullirer's 
Travels  must  be  regarded  as  bis  greatest  work,  though  several  eminent  critics,  including  Hal- 
lam,  liave  found  it  inferior  to  The  Tale  of  a  Tub.  Perhaps  these  words  of  Lord  Jeffrey  best 
embody  the  general  estimate  of  Dean  Swift  as  a  literary  man :  "  In  humor  and  in  irony,  and  in 
the  talent  of  debasing  and  defiling  what  he  hated,  we  join  with  the  world  in  thinking  the  Dean 
of  St  Patrick's  without  a  rival."  We  give  an  eftract  from  Gulliver's  Travels,  which  illustrates 
his  best  manner  as  a  satirist. 

FHILOSOPHEBS  AND  FBOJECTOBS. 

I  WAS  received  ven^  kindly  bv  the  warden,  and  went  for  many  days 
to  the  academy.  Ever}'  room  liath  in  it  one  or  more  projectors,  and 
I  believe  I  coidd  not  be  in  fewer  than  five  hundred  rooms. 

The  first  man  I  saw  was  of  a  meager  aspect,  with  sooty  hands  and 
face,  his  hair  and  beard  long,  ragged,  and  singed  in  several  places. 
His  clothes,  shirt,  and  skin  were  all  of  the  same  color.  He  had  been 
eight  years  upon  a  project  for  extracting  sunbeams  out  of  cucumbers, 
which  were  to  be  put  into  vials  hermetically  sealed,  and  let  out  to 


DEAN    SWIFT.  16 

warm  the  air  in  raw,  inclement  summers.  He  told  me  he  did  not 
doubt  in  eight  years  more  that  he  sliould  be  able  to  supply  the 
govenior's  gardens  with  sunshine  at  a  reasonable  rate ;  but  he  com- 
plained that  the  stock  was  low,  and  entreated  me  to  give  him  some- 
thing as  an  encouragement  to  ingenuity,  especially  since  this  had  been 
a  very  dear  season  for  cucumbers.  I  made  him  a  small  present,  for 
my  lord  had  furnished  me  with  money,  on  purpose,  because  he  knew 
their  pmctice  of  begging  from  all  who  go  to  see  them. 

I  saw  another  at  work  to  calcine  ice  into  gunpowder,  who  likewise 
showed  me  a  treatise  he  had  written  concerning  the  malleability  of 
tire,  which  he  intended  to  publish. 

There  was  a  most  ingenious  architect,  who  had  contrived  a  new 
method  for  building  houses,  by  beginning  at  the  roof,  and  working 
downwards  to  the  foundation ;  which  he  justified  to  me  by  the  like 
practice  of  those  two  prudent  insects,  the  bee  and  the  spider. 

In  another  apartment  I  was  highly  pleased  with  a  projector  who 
had  found  a  device  of  ploughing  the  ground  with  hogs,  to  save  the 
charges  of  ploughs,  cattle,  and  labor.  The  method  is  this :  in  an 
acre  of  ground,  you  bury,  at  six  inches  distance,  and  eight  deep,  a 
quantity  of  acorns,  dates,  chestnuts,  and  other  masts  or  vegetables, 
wlicreof  these  animals  are  fondest;  then  you  drive  six  hundred  or 
more  of  them  into  the  field,  where  in  a  few  days  they  will  root  up  the 
whole  ground  in  search  of  their  food,  and  make  it  fit  for  sowing.  It 
is  true,  upon  exj)eriment  they  found  the  chaise  and  trouble  very  great, 
and  they  had  little  or  no  crop.  However,  it  is  not  doubted  that  this 
invention  may  be  capable  of  great  improvement. 

I  went  into  another  room,  where  the  walls  and  ceilings  were  all 
hung  round  with  cobwebs,  except  a  narrow  passage  for  the  artist  to 
go  in  and  out.  At  my  entrance  he  called  aloud  to  me  not  to  disturb 
his  webs.  He  lamented  the  fatal  mistake  the  world  luid  been  so  long 
in,  of  using  silk-worms,  while  we  had  such  plenty  of  domestic  insects, 
who  infinitely  excelled  the  former,  because  they  understood  how  to 
weave  as  well  as  spin.  And  he  proposed,  further,  that  by  employing 
spiders,  the  charge  of  dyeing  silks  would  be  wholly  saved  ;  whereof  I 
was  fully  convince<l  when  he  showed  me  a  vast  numl)er  of  flies  most 
beautifully  colored,  wherewith  he  fed  his  spiders;  assuring  us  that 
the  webs  would  take  a  tincture  from  them  ;  and  as  he  had  them  of 
all  hues,  he  hoped  to  fit  everyl)ody*s  fancy,  as  soon  as  he  could  find 
proper  food  for  the  flies,  of  certain  gums,  oils,  and  other  glutinous 
matter,  to  jHrr  a  consistence  to  the  threads. 


16  CATHCAET^S    LITERARY    READER. 

There  was  an  astronomer  who  had  undertaken  to  place  a  sun-dia\ 
upon  the  great  weathercock  on  the  town-house,  by  adjusting  the 
annual  and  diurnal  motions  of  the  earth  and  sun,  so  as  to  answer  and 
coincide  with  all  accidental  turning  of  the  winds. 

I  visited  many  other  apartments,  but  shall  not  trouble  my  reader 
with  all  the  curiosities  I  observed,  being  studious  of  brevity. 

I  ha<l  hitherto  only  seen  one  side  of  the  academy,  the  other  being 
appropriateil  to  the  advancers  of  speculative  learning,  of  whom  I 
shall  say  something  when  I  have  mentioned  one  illustrious  person 
more  who  is  called  among  them  the  universal  artist.  He  told  us  he 
had  been  thirty  years  employing  his  thoughts  for  the  improvement  of 
human  life.  He  had  two  large  rooms  full  of  wonderful  curiosities,  and 
fifty  men  at  work ;  some  were  condensing  air  into  a  dry  tangil)le  sub- 
stance, by  extracting  the  niter,  and  letting  the  aqueous  or  fluid  parti- 
cles percolate  ;  others,  softening  marble  for  pillows  and  pin-cushions ; 
others,  petrifying  the  hoofs  of  a  living  horse  to  preserve  them  from 
foundering.  The  artist  himself  was  at  that  time  busy  upon  two  great 
designs  ;  first,  to  sow  land  with  chaff,  wherein  he  affirmed  the  true 
seminal  virtue  to  be  contained,  as  he  demonstrated  by  several  experi- 
ments, which  I  was  not  skillful  enough  to  comprehend.  The  other 
was,  by  a  certain  composition  of  gums,  minerals,  and  vegetables,  out- 
wardly applied,  to  prevent  the  growth  of  wool  upon  two  young  lambs, 
and  he  hoped  in  a  reasonable  time  to  propagate  the  breed  of  naked 
sheep  all  over  the  kingdom. 

We  crossed  a  walk  to  the  other  part  of  the  academy,  where,  as  I 
have  already  said,  the  projectors  in  speculative  learning  resided. 

The  first  professor  I  saw  was  in  a  very  large  room,  with  forty 
pupils  about  him.  After  salutation,  observing  me  to  look  earnestly 
upon  a  frame  which  took  up  the  greatest  part  of  both  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  room,  he  said,  perhaps  I  might  wonder  to  see  him 
employed  in  a  project  for  improving  speculative  knowledge  by  practical 
and  mechanical  operations.  But  the  world  would  soon  be  sensible  of 
its  usefulness,  and  he  flattered  himself  that  a  more  noble,  exalted 
thought  never  sprang  in  any  other  man's  head.  Every  one  knew  how 
lalK)rious  the  usual  method  is  of  attaining  to  arts  and  sciences,  whereas, 
by  his  contrivance,  the  most  ignorant  person,  at  a  reasonable  charge, 
and  with  a  little  bodily  labor,  may  write  books  in  philosophy,  poetry, 
politics,  law,  mathematics,  and  theology,  without  the  least  assistance 
from  genius  or  study.     He  then  led  me  to  the  frame,  about  the  sides 


D£AN   8WIFT.  IT 

whereof  all  his  pupils  stood  in  ranks.  It  was  twenty  feet  square, 
placed  ill  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  superficies  *  was  composed  of 
several  bits  of  wood,  about  the  bigness  of  a  die,  but  some  larger  than 
others.  They  were  all  linked  together  by  slender  wires.  These  bits 
of  wood  were  covered  on  every  square  with  paper  pasted  on  them ; 
and  on  these  papers  were  written  all  the  words  of  their  language  in 
tlieir  several  mcx)ds,  tenses,  and  declensions,  but  without  any  order. 
The  professor  then  desired  me  to  observe,  for  he  was  going  to  set  his 
engine  at  work.  The  pupils,  at  his  conunand,  took  each  of  them  hold 
of  an  iron  handle,  whereof  there  were  forty  fixed  round  the  edges  of 
the  frame,  and  giving  them  a  sudden  turn,  the  whole  disposition  of 
the  words  was  entirely  clianged.  He  then  commanded  six-and-thirty 
of  the  kds  to  read  the  several  lines  softly  as  they  appeared  upon 
the  frame,  and  where  they  found  three  or  four  words  together  that 
might  make  part  of  a  sentence,  they  dictated  to  the  four  remaining 
boys,  who  were  scribes.  This  work  was  repeated  three  or  four  times, 
and  at  every  turn  the  engine  was  so  contrived,  that  the  words  shifted 
into  new  places  as  the  square  bits  of  wood  moved  upside  down. 

Six  hours  a  day  the  young  students  were  employed  in  this  labor ; 
and  the  professor  showed  me  several  volumes  in  large  folio,  already 
collected,  of  broken  sentences,  which  he  in  tend  wl  to  piece  together,  and 
out  of  those  rich  materials  to  give  the  world  a  complete  body  of  all 
arts  and  sciences,  which,  however,  might  be  still  improved,  and  much 
expedited,  if  the  public  would  raise  a  fund  for  making  and  employing 
five  hundred  such  frames  in  I^agado,  and  oblige  the  managers  to 
contribute  in  common  their  several  collections. 

He  assured  me  that  this  invention  had  employed  all  his  thoughts 
from  his  youth ;  that  he  hatl  emptied  the  whole  vocabulary  into  his 
frame,  and  made  the  strictest  computation  of  the  general  proportion 
then*  is  in  Iwoks,  between  the  numbers  of  particles,  nouns,  and  verbs, 
anil  other  parts  of  speech. 

I  mmle  my  humblest  acknowledgments  to  tliis  illustrious  person 
for  his  great  communicativeness,  and  promised,  if  ever  I  had  tlie  good 
fortune  to  return  to  my  native  country,  that  I  would  do  him 
justice,  as  the  sole  inventor  of  this  wonderful  machine,  the  form  and 
contrivance  of  which  T  desired  leave  to  delineate  upon  paper.  I  told 
him,  although  it  were  the  custom  of  our  learned  in  Europe  to  steal 
inventions  from  each  other,  who  had  thereby  at  least  this  advantage, 

*  The  nrihee;  the  exterior  pert  or  boe  of  » (hiag. 


18  cATuc art's  literaky  beadeb. 

that  it  became  a  controversy  which  was  the  right  owner,  yet  I  would 
take  such  caution  that  he  should  have  the  honor  entire  without  a 
rival. 

We  next  went  to  the  school  of  languao^es,  where  three  professors 
sat  in  consultation  upon  improving  that  of  their  own  country. 

The  first  project  was  to  shorten  discourse  by  cutting  polysyllables 
into  one,  and  leaving  out  verbs  and  participles ;  because,  in  reality,  all 
things  imaginable  are  but  nouns. 

The  other  was  a  scheme  for  entirely  abolishing  all  words  whatso- 
ever ;  and  this  was  urged  as  a  great  advantage  in  point  of  health  as 
well  as  brevity  :  for  it  is  plain  that  every  word  we  speak  is  in  some 
degree  a  diminution  of  our  lungs  by  cx)rrosion,  and  consequently  con- 
tributes to  the  shortening  of  our  lives.  An  expedient  was  therefore 
offered,  that  since  words  are  only  names  for  things,  it  would  be  more 
c»nvenient  for  all  men  to  carry  about  them  such  things  as  were 
necessary  to  express  the  partit  nlar  business  they  are  to  discourse  on. 
And  this  invention  woul*  y  have  taken  place,  to  the  great  case 

as  well  as  health  of  the  surycct,  ii  the  women,  in  conjunction  with  the 
vulgar  and  illiterate,  had  not  threatened  to  raise  a  rebellion,  unless 
they  might  be  allowed  the  liberty  to  speak  with  their  tongues,  after 
the  maimer  of  their  forefathers  ;  such  constant  irreconcilable  enemies 
to  science  are  the  common  people. 


The  common  fluency  of  speech  in  many  men,  and  most  women,  is 
owing  to  a  scarcity  of  matter,  and  a  scarcity  of  words ;  for  whoever 
is  a  master  of  language,  and  hath  a  mind  full  of  ideas,  will  be  apt 
in  speaking  to  hesitate  upon  the  choice  of  both ;  whereas  common 
speakers  have  oidy  one  set  of  ideas,  and  one  set  of  words  to  clothe 
them  in ;  and  these  are  always  ready  at  the  mouth ;  so  people  come 
faster  out  of  church  when  it  is  almost  empty,  than  when  a  crowd  is  at 
the  door. 


An  old  miser  kept  a  tame  jackdaw,  that  used  to  steal  pieces  of 
money  and  hide  them  in  a  hole,  which  the  cat  observing,  asked  "  Why 
he  would  hoard  up  those  round  shining  things  that  he  could  make  no 
use  of?  "  "  Why,"  said  the  jackdaw,  "  my  master  has  a  whole  chest 
full,  and  makes  no  more  use  of  them  than  I." 


ADDISON.  19 

ADDISON. 
1672- 1719. 

Joszm  ADDTSO!f  was  born  in  1672,  and  died  in  1719-  Hi*  name  is  a  sjnonjrm  of  rhctoriad 
elegance ;  and  to  say  that  the  stvle  of  a  composition  is  "  Addisonian  "  is  to  give  it  the  higlieit 
praise  for  tinisb  and  classic  regularity.  Addison's  style,  however  admirable  it  may  have  seemed 
to  his  contemporaries,  cannot  safely  be  taken  as  a  model  by  a  writer  of  the  present  day  :  it  is  too 
cold  and  elaborate,  and  conveys  an  idea  of  formality  which  is  not  in  harmony  with  the  spirit  of 
our  time.  Addison's  fame  as  a  writer  rests  mainly  on  his  contributions  to  the  Spectator,  Tat- 
ter, and  Guardian,  periodicals  which  clearly  illustrate  the  manners  and  morals  of  the  time,  and 
which  contain  many  of  the  finest  specimens  of  English  literary  workmanship.  To  these  period- 
icals Addison  was  the  principal  contributor,  and  with  these  his  name  will  have  its  most  enduring 
association,  lie  was  a  poet  and  a  dramatist ;  but,  except  perhaps  his  tragedy  of  Cuto,  his  efforts 
in  these  departments  of  litemturc  are  not  held  in  very  high  esteem  by  the  authorities  of  to-day. 
Addison  led  an  easy  and  somewhat  luxurious  life.  He  held  a  high  ottice  in  the  government,  had 
an  ample  income,  and  in  the  literary  society  of  tliat  brilliant  period  occupied,  by  general  ac- 
quiescence, the  foremost  rank.  No  student  of  English  literature  can  afford  to  neglect  the  essays 
of  Addison,  which  illustrate  the  very  best  literary  achievementa  of  English  writers,  in  delicacy 
of  sentiment  and  felicity  of  expression. 

AMEBICAN  INDIAN  TBADITIONS  OF  THE  SFUUT-WOSU). 

The  American  Indians  believe  that  all  creatures  have  souls,  not  only 
men  and  women,  but  brutes,  vegetables,  nay,  even  the  most  inanimate 
things,  as  stocks  and  stones.  They  believe  the  same  of  all  the  works 
of  art,  as  of  knives,  boats,  looking-glasses ;  and  that,  as  any  of  these 
things  perish,  their  souls  go  into  another  world,  which  is  inhabited 
by  the  gliosts  of  nren  and  women.  For  this  reason  they  always  pkce 
by  the  corpse  of  their  dead  friend  a  bow  and  arrow,  that  he  may  make 
use  of  the  souls  of  them  in  the  other  world,  as  he  did  of  their  wooden 
bodies  in  this.  How  absurd  soever  such  an  opinion  as  this  may 
appear,  our  European  philosophers  have  maintained  several  notions 
altogether  as  improbable.  I  shall  only  instance  Albertus  Magnus,* 
who  in  his  dissertation  upon  the  loadstone,  observing  that  fire  will 
destroy  its  magnetic  virtues,  tells  us  that  he  took  particular  notice 
of  one  as  it  lay  glowing  amidst  an  heap  of  burning  coals,  and  that 
lie  perceivetl  a  certain  blue  vapor  to  arise  from  it,  which  he  believed 
uiiglit  be  the  substantial  form  :  tlmt  is,  in  our  West-Indian  phrase, 
the  soul  of  the  magnet. 

Th  -    •       Tulition  among  tlie  Indians,  that  one  of  their  country- 

•  .\  iMiiiiMii  nil  rnar  and  bishop  of  fhe  eleventh  century.     He  was  an  eminent  n 
nnd  matbenwlician.  and  it  Mid  to  hare  beta  a  Marcher  after  the  philosopher's  stone. 


20  cathcaet's  literaby  reader. 

men  descended  in  a  vision  to  the  great  ^repository  of  souls,  or,  as  we 
call  it  here,  to  the  other  world ;  and  that  upon  his  return  he  gave  his 
friends  a  distinct  account  of  everj'thing  he  saw  among  those  regions 
of  the  dead.  A  friend  of  mine,  whom  I  have  formerly  mentioned, 
prevailed  upon  one  of  the  interpreters  of  the  Indian  kings,  to  inquire 
of  them,  if  possible,  what  tradition  they  have  among  them  of  this 
matter;  which,  as  well  as  he  could  learn  by  those  many  questions 
which  he  asked  them  at  several  times,  was  in  substance  as  follows. 

The  visionary,  whose  name  was  Marraton,  after  having  traveled  for 
a  long  space  under  an  hollow  mountain,  arrived  at  lengtli  on  the 
confines  of  this  world  of  spirits,  but  could  not  enter  it  by  reason  of 
a  thick  forest  made  up  of  bushes,  brambles,  and  pointed  thorns,  so 
interwoven  with  one  another,  that  it  was  impossible  to  find  a  passage 
through  it.  Whilst  he  was  looking  about  for  some  track  or  pathway 
that  might  be  worn  in  any  part  of  it,  he  saw  a  huge  lion  couched 
under  the  side  of  it,  who  kept  his  eye  upon  him  in  the  same  posture 
as  when, he  watches  for  his  prey.  The  Indian  immediately  started 
back,  whilst  the  lion  rose  with  a  spring,  and  leaped  towards  him. 
Being  wholly  destitute  of  all  other  weapons,  he  stooped  down  to  take 
up  a  huge  stone  in  his  hand ;  but  to  his  infinite  surprise  grasped 
nothing,  and  found  the  supposed  stone  to  be  only  the  apparition  of 
one.  If  he  was  disappointed  on  this  side,  he  was  as  much  pleased 
on  the  other,  when  he  found  the  lion,  which  had  seized  on  his  left 
shoulder,  had  no  power  to  hurt  him,  and  was  only  the  ghost  of  that 
ravenous  creature  which  it  appeared  to  be.  He  no  sooner  got  rid 
of  his  impotent  enemy,  but  he  marched  up  to  the  wood,  and  after 
having  surveyed  it  for  some  time,  endeavored  to  press  into  one  part 
of  it  that  was  a  little  thinner  than  the  rest ;  when  again,  to  his  great 
surprise,  he  found  the  bushes  made  no  resistance,  but  that  he  walked 
through  briers  and  brambles  with  the  same  ease  as  through  the  open 
air ;  and,  in  short,  that  the  whole  wood  was  nothing  else  but  a  wood 
of  shades.  He  immediately  concluded  that  this  huge  thicket  of  thorns 
and  brakes  was  designed  as  a  kind  of  fence  or  quickset  hedge  to  the 
ghosts  it  enclosed ;  and  that  probably  their  soft  substances  might  be 
torn  by  these  subtle  points  and  prickles,  which  were  too  weak  to  make 
any  impressions  in  flesh  and  blood.  With  this  thought  he  resolved 
to  travel  through  this  intricate  wood ;  when  by  degrees  he  felt  a  gale 
of  perfumes  breathing  upon  him,  that  grew  stronger  and  sweeter  in 
proportion  as  he  advanced.     He  had  not  proceeded  much  farther, 


ADDISON.  21 

when  he  observed  the  thorns  and  briers  to  end,  and  give  place  to  a 
thousand  l>eautifiil  ^t'cn  trees  covered  with  blossoms  of  the  finest 
scents  and  colors,  that  formed  a  wilderness  of  sweets,  and  were  a 
kind  of  lining  to  those  rugged  scenes  which  he  had  before  passed 
through.  As  he  was  coming  out  of  this  delightful  part  of  the  wood, 
and  entering  upon  the  plains  it  enclosed,  he  saw  sevend  horsemen 
rushing  by  him,  and  a  little  while  after  heard  the  cry  of  a  pack  of 
dogs.  He  liad  not  listened  long  before  he  saw  the  apparition  of  a 
milk-white  steed,  with  a  young  man  on  the  back  of  it,  atlvancing  upon 
full  stretch  after  the  souls  of  about  an  hundred  beagles,  tliat  were 
hunting  down  the  ghost  of  an  hare,  which  ran  away  before  them  with 
an  unspeakable  swiftness.  As  the  man  on  the  milk-white  steed  came 
by  him,  he  looked  upon  him  very  attentively,  and  found  him  to  be 
the  young  prince  Nicharagua,  who  died  about  half  a  year  before,  and 
by  reason  of  his  great  virtues  was  at  that  time  lamented  over  all  the 
western  parts  of  America. 

He  had  no  sooner  got  out  of  the  wood,  but  he  was  entertained 
with  such  a  landscape  of  floweiy  plains,  green  meadows,  running 
streams,  sunny  hills,  and  shady  vales,  as  were  not  to  be  represented 
by  his  own  expressions,  nor,  as  he  said,  by  the  conceptions  of  others. 
This  happy  region  was  peopled  with  innumerable  swarms  of  spirits, 
who  applied  themselves  to  exercises  and  diversions,  according  as  their 
fancies  led  them.  Some  of  them  were  tossing  the  figure  of  a  coit; 
others  were  pitching  the  shadow  of  a  bar ;  others  were  breaking  the 
apparition  of  a  horse;  atid  multitudes  employing  themselves  upon 
ingenious  handicrafts  with  the  souls  of  departed  utensils,  for  that  is 
the  name  which  in  the  Indian  hmguage  they  give  their  tools  when 
they  are  burned  or  broken.  As  he  traveled  through  this  delightfid 
scene,  he  was  very  often  tempted  to  pluck  the  flowers  that  rose  every- 
where al)out  him  in  the  greatest  variety  and  profusion,  having  never 
seen  several  of  them  in  his  own  country ;  but  he  quickly  found,  that 
though  they  were  objects  of  his  sight,  they  were  not  liable  to  his 
touch.  He  at  length  came  to  the  side  of  a  great  river,  and  being  a 
good  fisherman  himself,  stood  upon  the  banks  of  it  some  time  to  look 
upon  an  angler  that  had  taken  a  great  many  shapes  of  fishes,  which 
lay  fl<mncing  up  and  down  by  him. 

I  should  have  told  my  rejuler  that  this  Indian  had  been  formerly 
married  to  one  of  the  greatest  beauties  of  his  country,  by  whom  he 
had  8e\'erel  children.     This  couple  were  so  famous  for  their  love  and 


22  cathcaet's  literary  reader. 

constancy  to  one  another,  that  the  Indians  to  this  day,  when  thcv 
gfive  a  married  man  joy  of  his  wife,  wish  they  may  live  together  likt 
Marraton  and  Yaratilda.  Marraton  had  not  stood  long  by  the  fisher- 
man, when  he  saw  the  shwlow  of  his  beloved  Yaratilda,  who  had  for 
some  time  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him  before  he  discovered  her.  Her 
arms  were  stretched  out  towards  him,  floods  of  tears  ran  down  her 
eyes :  her  looks,  her  hands,  her  voice  called  him  over  to  her ;  and 
at  the  same  time  seemed  to  tell  him  that  the  river  was  irapassabl*. 
Who  can  describe  the  passion,  made  up  of  joy,  sorrow,  love,  desin-. 
astonishment,  that  rose  in  the  Indian  upon  the  sight  of  his  dear 
Yaratilda  ?  He  could  express  it  by  nothing  but  his  tears,  which  ran 
like  a  river  down  his  cheeks  as  he  looked  uix)n  her.  He  had  not 
stood  in  this  posture  long,  before  he  plunged  into  the  stream  tluit 
lay  before  him ;  and  finding  it  to  be  nothing  but  the  phantom  of  a 
river,  walked  on  the  bottom  of  it  till  he  rose  on  the  other  side.  At 
his  approach  Yaratihla  flew  into  his  arms,  whilst  Marraton  wished 
himself  disencumbered  of  that  body  which  kept  her  from  his  embraces. 
After  many  questions  and  endearments  on  l)oth  sides,  she  conducted 
him  to  a  bower  which  she  had  dressed  with  all  the  ornaments  that 
could  be  met  with  in  those  blooming  regions.  She  ha<l  raatle  it  gay 
beyond  imagination,  and  was  every  day  adding  something  new  to  it. 
As  Marraton  stood  astonished  at  the  unspeakable  beauty  of  her  habi- 
tation, and  ravished  with  the  fragrancy  that  came  from  every  part  of 
it,  Yaratilda  told  him  that  she  was  preparing  this  bower  for  his 
reception,  as  well  knowing  that  his  piety  to  his  God,  and  his  faithful 
dealing  towards  men,  would  certainly  bring  him  to  that  happy  place, 
whenever  his  life  should  be  at  an  end.  She  then  brought  two  of  her 
cliildren  to  him,  who  died  some  years  before,  and  resided  with  her  in 
the  same  delightful  bower  ;*  advising  him  to  breed  up  those  others 
which  were  still  with  him  in  such  a  manner,  that  they  might  hereafter 
all  of  them  meet  together  in  this  happy  place. 

The  tradition  tells  us  further,  that  he  had  afterwards  a  sight  of 
those  dismal  habitations  which  are  the  portion  of  ill  men  after  death  ; 
and  mentions  several  molten  seas  of  gold  into  which  were  plunged 
the  souls  of  barbarous  Europeans,  who  put  to  the  sword  so  many 
thousands  of  poor  Indians  for  the  sake  of  that  precious  metal.  But 
having  already  touched  upon  the  chief  points  of  this  tradition,  and 
exceeded  the  measure  of  my  paper,  I  shall  not  give  any  further  account 
of  it. 


POPE.  23 

POPE. 
1688- 1744. 

Alkxaxdek  Pope,  the  most  eminent  poet  of  his  time,  was  born  in  1688,  and  died  in  17*4. 
He  was  blessed  with  a  fair  share  of  wealth,  and  lived  in  luxurions  retirement  in  iiis  villa  at 
Twirki-uhmu.  Afflicted  with  a  bodily  deformity,  touching  which  he  was  keenly  sensitive,  he 
nuiii:liil  but  httlc  in  the  great  world,  but  contented  himself  with  the  society  which  sought  him 
m  lii*  home.  He  was  emphatically  a  Uterary  man,  giving  his  wliole  time  and  thought  to  literary 
jiursuits.  Notoriously  petulant,  a  peculiarity  which  his  feeble  health  goes  far  toward  excusing. 
Ik-  was  continually  involved  in  quarrels  with  contcmpornry  writers ;  and  some  of  his  most 
brilliant  poems  were  written  under  the  inspiration  of  personal  animosity.  His  greatest  work 
was  the  translation  of  Homer,  which  in  most  respects  remains  unsurpassed  by  any  previous  or 
subsequent  version.  Of  his  original  compositions  The  Essay  on  Man  is  that  by  which  be  is 
best  known.    From  this  work  we  take  onr  extracts. 

THE  PEESENT  CONDITION  OF  MAN  VINDICATED. 

Heaven  from  all  creatiires  hides  the  book  of  Fate, 
All  but  the  page  prescribed,  their  present  stiite ; 
From  bnites  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits  know. 
Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below  ? 
The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day, 
Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and  play  ? 
Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  tiie  flowor\'  food, 
And  licks  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his  blood. 
0  blindness  to  the  future  !  kindly  given, 
That  each  may  fill  the  circle  marked  by  Heaven ; 
Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 
A  hero  perish  or  a  sparrow  tall ; 
•""        Atoms  or  systems  into  niin  hurled. 

And  now  a  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world. 

Hope  humbly,  then,  with  trembling  pinions  soar ; 
Wait  the  great  teacher.  Death  ;  and  God  adore. 
What  future  bliss,  he  gives  not  thee  to  know. 
But  gives  that  hope  to  l)e  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast ; 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest ; 
The  soul,  unea.sy  and  confined  from  home, 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come. 

Lo  the  poor  Indian,  whose  untutored  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  and  hears  him  in  the  wind ; 


24  cathcaet's  literary  reader. 

His  soul  proud  Science  never  taught  to  stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk,  or  milky  way  ; 
Yet  simple  Nature  to  his  hope  has  given, 
Behind  the  cloud-topped  hill,  a  humbler  heaven ; 
Some  safer  world  in  depth  of  woods  embraced, 
Some  happier  island  in  the  watery  waste, 
Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  behold, 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold. 
To  BE,  contents  his  natural  desire, 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire: 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 
Go,  wiser  thou  !  and  in  thy  scale  of  sense 
Weigh  thy  opinion  against  Providence ; 
Call  imperfection  what  thou  fanciest  such. 
Say,  here  he  gives  too  little,  there  too  much : 
Destroy  all  creatures  for  thy  sport  or  gust. 
Yet  cry,  if  Man  's  unhappy,  God  's  unjust ; 
If  man  alone  engross  not  Heaven's  high  care. 
Alone  ma<le  perfect  here,  immortal  there : 
Snatch  from  his  hand  the  balance  and  the  rod, 
Re-judge  his  justice,  be  the  God  of  God. 
In  Pride,  in  reasoning  Pride,  our  error  lies ; 
All  quit  their  sphere,  and  rush  into  the  skies. 
Pride  still  is  aiming  at  the  blest  abodes. 
Men  would  be  Angels,  Angels  would  be  Gods. 
Aspiring  to  be  Gods,  if  Angels  fell. 
Aspiring  to  be  Angels,  Men  rebel : 
And  who  but  wishes  to  revert  the  laws 
Of  Order  sins  against  the  Eternal  Cause. 

GEEATWESS. 

Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise ; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies. 
,  Fortune  in  men  has  some  small  difference  made  : 
One  flaunts  in  rags,  one  flutters  in  brocade ; 
The  cobbler  aproned,  and  the  parson  gowned. 
The  friar  hooded,  and  the  monarch  crowned. 


POPE.  25 

••  What  differ  more  (you  cry)  than  crown  and  cowl  ?  " 

I  '11  tell  you,  friend !  a  wise  man  and  a  fool. 

You  '11  find,  if  once  the  monarch  acts  the  monk, 

Or,  cobbler-like,  the  parson  will  be  drunk, 

Worth  makes  the  man,  and  want  of  it  the  fellow  ; 

The  rest  is  all  but  leather  or  prunella. 

Go  !  if  your  ancient  but  i«^noble  blood 

Has  crept  through  scoundrels  ever  since  the  flood. 

Go !  and  pretend  your  family  is  young, 

Nor  own  your  fathers  have  been  fools  so  long. 

What  can  ennoble  sots  or  slaves  or  cowards  ? 

Alas  !  not  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards. 

Look  next  on  greatness  !  say  where  greatness  lies  ? 
"  Where,  but  among  the  heroes  and  the  wise  ?  " 
Heroes  are  much  the  same,  the  point 's  agreed, 
From  Macedonia's  madman  to  the  Swede ;  ♦ 
The  whole  strange  purpose  of  their  lives,  to  find 
Or  make  an  enemy  of  all  mankind  ! 
Not  one  looks  backward,  onward  still  he  goes. 
Yet  ne'er  looks  forward  farther  than  his  nose. 
No  less  alike  the  politic  and  wise ; 
All  sly  slow  things,  with  circumspective  eyes : 
Men  in  their  loose  unguarded  hours  they  take. 
Not  that  themselves  are  wise,  but  others  weak. 
But  grant  that  those  can  conquer,  these  can  cheat ; 
*T  is  phrase  absurd  to  call  a  villain  great : 
Who  wickedly  is  wise,  or  madly  brave. 
Is  but  the  more  a  fool,  the  more  a  knave. 
Who  noble  ends  by  noble  means  obtains. 
Or,  failing,  smiles  in  exile  or  in  chains. 
Like  good  Aurclius  let  him  reign,  or  bleed 
Like  Socrates,  that  man  is  great  indeed. 

The  kllnsion  is  to  Alexander  the  Great  and  Charles  XII.  of  Sweden.    Pope  bonowed  the 
I  from  MandeA'ille's  Fmile  of  tk«  Beet. 


26  cathcaet's  liteeaey  readee. 

DR.  JOHNSON. 

1709- 1784. 

Samcicl  JoHirsoif,  one  of  the  great  iitenry  men  of  his  tirar,  was  horn  in  1709  and  died  in  1781. 
He  compiled  a  celebrated  DietiomMfy  ^  the  Engiuk  Language  and  wrote  poenu,  moral  and 
eontrovertial,  eaaays  and  bio?r»nhii-«  in<^lading  the  well-known  Litct  of  Ike  PoeU.  He  was  the 
eoBtemporar)'  of  Goldsmitb,  '■  ian,  and  many  famous  literary  men  and  women,  among 

whom  he  eqjoyed  a  tort  of  |>t  yielded  rather  to  hia  arrogance  than  to  his  merits.    His 

maaners  were  incredibly  rude,  au«i  Li*  general  demeanor  positively  bearish,  but  his  intellectual 
greatneas  is  beyond  question.  His  prose  writings  are  notnl  for  their  formality  of  style  and  rigor 
of  thought  Like  Addison,  he  has  ftimiehed  an  adjective  descriptive  of  literary  style ;  and  to  be 
"  Johnsonian  "  is  to  be  ponileroiu  and  grandioae.  RatseUt,  Frimce  of  Jiytsinia,  an  allegorical 
story  from  whieh  we  take  oar  extracts,  is  perhaps  the  most  familiar  of  his  compositions  to 
the  general  reader.  Dr.  Johnson  was  a  man  of  rigorous  intdlect,  acute  and  argumentative, 
bat  narrow  in  his  views,  dogmatic  and  positive  in  hia  aaaertions.  He  was  respected,  but 
not  loved.  His  biography,  written  by  his  hnmble  friend  Boawell,  gives  a  full  and  %-irid  por- 
trait of  him  as  a  man  and  a  writer. 

A  PALACE  IN  A  VALLEY. 

Ye  who  listen  with  credulity  to  the  whispers  of  fancy,  and  pursue 
with  eageniess  the  phantoms  of  hope ;  who  expect  that  age  will 
perform  the  promises  of  youth,  and  that  the  deficiencies  of  the  pres- 
ent day  will  be  supplied  by  the  morrow  ;  attend  to  the  history  of 
Rasselas,  Prince  of  Abyssinia. 

Rasselas  was  the  fourth  son  of  the  mighty  emperor  in  whose 
dominions  the  Father  of  Waters  begins  his  course ;  whose  bounty 
pours  down  the  streams  of  plenty,  and  scatters  over  half  the  world 
the  harvests  of  Egypt. 

Acconling  to  the  custom  which  has  descended  from  age  to  age 
among  the  monarchs  of  the  torrid  zone,  Basselas  was  confined  in  a 
private  palace,  with  the  other  sons  and  daughters  of  Abyssinian 
royalty,  till  the  order  of  succession  should  call  him  to  the  throne. 

The  place  which  the  wisdom  or  policy  of  antiquity  had  destined 
for  the  residence  of  the  Abyssinian  princes  was  a  spacious  valley  in 
the  kingdom  of  Amhara,  surrounded  on  every  side  by  mountains,  of 
which  the  summits  overhang  the  middle  part.  The  only  passage  by 
which  it  could  be  entered  was  a  cavern  that  passed  under  a  rock, 
of  which  it  has  long  been  disputed  whether  it  was  the  work  of  nature 
or  of  human  industry.  The  outlet  of  the  cavern  was  concealed  by 
a  thick  wood,  and  the  mouth  which  opened  into  the  valley  was  closed 
with  gates  of  iron,  forged  by  the  artificers  of  ancient  days,  so  massy 
that  no  man  could  without  the  help  of  engines  open  or  shut  them. 


DR.    JOHNSON.  27 

From  the  mountains  on  eveiy  side  rivulets  descended  that  filled 
nil  the  valley  with  venlure  and  fertility,  and  formed  a  lake  in  the 
middle  inhabited  by  fish  of  every  species,  and  frequented  by  every 
fowl  whom  Nature  has  tauj^ht  to  dip  the  wing  in  water.  This  lake 
disohar<;ed  its  superfluities  by  a  stream  which  entered  a  dark  cleft 
of  the  mountain  on  the  northern  side,  and  fell  with  dreatlful  noise 
from  precipice  to  precipice  till  it  was  heard  no  more. 

The  sides  of  the  mountains  were  covered  with  trees,  the  banks  of 
the  brooks  were  diversified  with  flowers;  every  blast  shook  spices 
from  the  rocks,  and  every  month  dropped  fruits  upon  the  ground. 
All  animals  that  bite  the  grass,  or  browse  the  shnib,  whether  wild 
or  tame,  wandered  in  this  extensive  circuit,  secured  from  beasts  of 
prey  by  the  mountains  which  confined  them.  On  one  part  were 
flocks  and  herds  feeding  in  the  pastures,  on  another,  all  beasts  of 
chase  frisking  in  the  lawns ;  the  sprightly  kid  was  bounding  on  the 
n)cks,  the  subtle  moiikey  frolicking  among  the  trees,  and  the  solemn 
elephant  reposing  in  the  shade.  All  the  diversities  of  the  world  were 
brought  together,  the  blessings  of  nature  were  collected,  and  its  evils 
extracted  and  excluded. 

Tlie  valley,  wide  and  fruitful,  supplied  its  inhabitants  with  the 
necessaries  of  life ;  and  all  delights  and  superfluities  were  added  at 
the  annual  visit  which  the  emperor  paid  his  children,  when  the  iron 
gate  was  opened  to  the  sound  of  music  ;  and  during  eight  days  every 
one  that  resided  in  the  valley  was  required  to  propose  whatever  might 
contribute  to  make  seclusion  pleasant,  to  fill  up  the  vacancies  of 
attention,  and  lessen  the  tediousness  of  time.  Every  desire  was 
immediately  granted.  All  the  artificers  of  pleasure  were  called  to 
gladden  the  festivity ;  the  musicians  exerted  the  power  of  harmony, 
and  the  dancers  showed  their  activity  before  the  princes,  in  hope 
that  they  should  pass  their  lives  in  this  blissful  captivity,  to  which 
those  only  were  admittetl  whose  performance  was  thought  able  to 
add  novelty  to  luxury.  Such  was  the  appearance  of  security  and 
delight  which  this  retirement  aff*onled,  that  they  to  whom  it  was 
new  always  desired  that  it  might  be  perpetual;  and  as  those  on 
whom  the  iron  gate  had  once  clos<'d  were  never  suflVred  to  return, 
the  cff'ect  of  long  experience  could  not  be  known.  Thus  every  year 
produced  new  schemes  of  delight,  and  new  competitors  for  impris- 
onment. 

The  palace  stood  on  an  eminence  raised  about  thirty  pace*  above 


28  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

the  surface  of  the  lake.  It  was  divided  into  many  squares  or  courts, 
built  with  greater  or  less  magnificence,  according  to  the  rank  of  those 
for  whom  they  were  designed.  The  roofs  were  turned  into  arches  of 
massy  stone,  joined  by  a  cement  that  grew  harder  by  time,  and  the 
building  stood  from  centui-y  to  century  deriding  the  solstitial  rains 
and  equinoctial  hurricanes,  without  need  of  reparation. 

This  house,  which  was  so  large  as  to  be  fully  known  to  none  but 
some  ancient  officers  who  successively  inherited  the  secrets  of  the 
place,  was  built  as  if  Suspicion  herself  had  dictated  the  plan.  To 
every  room  there  was  an  open  and  secret  passage ;  every  square  had 
a  communication  with  the  rest,  either  from  the  upper  stories  by 
private  galleries,  or  by  subtermnean  passages  from  the  lower  apart- 
ments. Many  of  the  columns  had  unsuspected  cavities,  in  which  a 
long  race  of  monarchs  had  deposited  their  treasures.  They  then 
closed  up  the  opening  with  marble,  which  was  never  to  be  removed 
but  in  the  utmost  exigencies  of  the  kingtlom ;  and  recorded  their 
accumulations  in  a  book  which  was  itself  concealed  in  a  tower  not 
entered  but  by  the  emperor,  attended  by  the  prince  who  stood  next 
in  succession. 


THE  DISCONTENT  OF  HA88ELA8. 

Here  the  sons  and  daughters  of  Abyssinia  lived  only  to  know  the 
soft  vicissitudes  of  pleasure  and  repose,  attended  by  all  that  were 
skillful  to  delight,  and  gratified  with  whatever  the  senses  can  enjoy. 
Tliey  wandered  in  gardens  of  fragrance,  and  slept  in  the  fortresses  of 
security.  Every  art  was  practiced  to  make  them  pleased  with  their 
own  condition.  The  sages  who  instructed  them  told  them  of  nothing 
but  the  miseries  of  public  life,  and  described  all  beyond  the  moun- 
tains as  regions  of  calamity,  where  discord  was  always  raging,  and 
where  man  preyed  upon  man. 

To  heighten  their  opinion  of  their  own  felicity,  they  were  daily 
entertained  with  songs,  the  subject  of  which  was  the  hxippy  valley. 
Their  appetites  were  excited  by  frequent  enumerations  of  different 
enjoyments,  and  revelry  and  merriment  was  the  business  of  every 
hour  from  the  dawn  of  morning  to  the  close  of  even. 

These  methods  were  generally  successful ;  few  of  the  princes  had 
ever  wished  to  enlarge  their  bounds,  but  passed  their  lives  in  full 
conviction  that  they  had  all  within  their  reach  that  art  or  nature 


DE.    JOHNSON.  £9 

could  bestow,  and  pitied  those  whom  fate  had  excluded  from  this  seat 
of  tranquillity,  as  the  sport  of  chauce  and  the  slave  of  misery. 

Thus  they  rose  in  the  morning  and  lay  down  at  night,  pleased  with 
each  other  and  with  themselves,  —  all  but  Rasselas,  who  in  the  twenty- 
sixth  year  of  his  age  began  to  withdraw  himself  from  their  pastimes 
and  assemblies,  and  to  delight  in  solitary  walks  and  silent  meditation. 
He  often  sat  before  tables  covered  with  luxury,  and  forgot  to  taste 
the  dainties  that  were  placed  before  him;  he  rose  abruptly  in  the 
midst  of  the  song,  and  hastily  retired  beyond  the  sound  of  music. 
His  attendants  observed  the  change,  and  endeavored  to  renew  his 
love  of  pleasure.  He  neglected  their  officiousncss,  repulsed  their 
invitations,  and  spent  day  after  day  on  the  banks  of  rivulets  sheltered 
with  trees,  where  he  sometimes  listened  to  the  birds  in  the  branches, 
sometimes  observed  the  fish  playing  in  the  stream,  and  anon  cast  his 
eyes  upon  the  pastures  and  mountains  filled  with  animals,  of  which 
some  were  biting  the  herbage,  and  some  sleeping  among  the  bushes. 

This  singidarity  of  his  humor  m.'ule  him  much  observed.  One 
of  the  sages,  in  whose  conversation  he  had  formerly  delighted, 
followed  him  secretly,  in  hope  of  discovering  the  cause  of  his  disquiet. 
Rasselas,  who  knew  not  that  any  one  was  near  him,  having  for  some 
time  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  goats  that  were  browsing  among  tlie 
rocks,  began  to  compare  their  condition  with  his  own. 

"  What,"  said  he,  "  makes  the  difference  between  man  and  all  the 
rt^t  of  the  animal  creation  ?  Every  beast  that  strays  beside  me  has 
tlie  same  corporal  necessities  with  myself:  he  is  hungry  and  crops 
fhf  irrass,  he  is  thirsty  and  drinks  the  stream;  his  thirst  and  hunger 
ire  appeased,  he  is  satisfied  and  sleeps:  he  rises  again  and  is  hun- 
u^ry ;  he  is  again  fed  and  is  at  rest.  I  am  hungry  and  thirsty,  like 
him;  but  when  thirst  and  hunger  cease  I  am  not  at  rest:  I  am, 
like  him,  pained  with  want;  but  am  not,  like  him,  satisfied  with 
fullness.  The  intermediate  hours  are  tedious  and  gloomy ;  I  long 
again  to  be  hungr\-,  that  I  may  again  quicken  my  attention.  The 
l)Inls  peck  the  berries  or  the  corn,  and  fly  away  to  the  groves,  where 
they  sit  in  seeming  happiness  on  the  branches,  and  waste  their  lives  in 
tuning  one  unvaried  series  of  sounds.  I  likewise  cm\  call  the  lutanist 
and  singer,  but  the  souiuls  that  pleased  me  yesterday  weary  me 
to-day,  and  will  grow  more  wearisome  to-morrow.  I  can  discover 
within  me  no  power  of  perception  which  is  not  glutted  with  its 
proper  pleasure,  yet  I  do  not  feel  myself  delighted.     Man  surely  has 


3U 

8ome  latent  sense  for  which  this  place  affords  no  gratification,  or  he 
has  some  desires  distinct  from  sense,  which  must  be  satisfied  before 
he  can  be  happy." 

After  this  he  lifted  up  his  head,  and  seeing;  the  moon  rising, 
walked  toward  the  palace.  As  he  passed  through  the  fields,  and  saw 
the  animals  around  him,  "  Ye,"  said  he,  **  are  happy,  and  need  not 
envy  me  that  walk  thus  among  you,  burdened  with  myself;  nor  do  I, 
ye  gentle  beings,  envy  your  felicity,  for  it  is  not  the  felicity  of  man. 
I  have  many  distresses  from  which  ye  are  free ;  I  fear  pain  when  1 
do  not  feel  it ;  I  sometimes  shrink  at  evils  recollected,  and  sometimes 
start  at  evils  anticipated :  surely  the  equity  of  Providence  has  bal- 
anced peculiar  sufferings  with  peculiar  enjoyments." 

With  observations  like  these  the  prince  amused  himself  as  he 
returned,  uttering  them  with  a  plaintive  voice,  yet  with  a  look  that 
discovered  him  to  feel  some  complacence  in  his  own  piTspicacity,  and 
to  receive  some  solace  of  the  miseries  of  life  from  consciousness  of  the 
delicacy  with  which  he  bewailed  them.  He  mingled  cheerfully  in  the 
diversions  of  the  evening,  and  all  rejoiced  to  find  that  his  heart  was 
lightened. 

We  were  now  treading  that  illustrious  island  which  was  once  the 
luminary  of  the  Caledonian  regions,  whence  savage  clans  and  roving 
barbarians  derived  the  benefits  of  knowledge  and  the  blessings  of  re- 
ligion. To  abstract  the  mind  from  all  local  emotion  would  be  impos- 
sible if  it  were  endeavored,  and  would  be  foolish  if  it  were  possible. 
Wliatever  withdraws  us  from  the  power  of  our  senses,  whatever  makes 
the  past  the  distant,  or  the  future  predominate  over  the  present,  ad- 
vances us  in  the  dignity  of  thinking  beings.  Far  from  me  and  my 
friends  be  such  frigid  philosophy  as  may  conduct  ris  indifferent  and 
unmoved  over  any  ground  which  has  been  dignified  by  wisdom, 
bravery,  or  virtue.  The  man  is  little  to  be  envied  whose  patriotism 
would  not  gain  force  on  the  plains  of  Marathon,*  or  whose  piety 
would  not  grow  warmer  among  the  ruins  of  lona.f  —  Journey  to  the 
Hebrides. 

*  Mabathox.  Among  the  noted  battles  of  ancient  times  ;  fought  between  the  Greeks  and 
Persians  490  b.  c. 

+  loNA.  One  of  the  western  islands  of  Scotland.  Interesting  for  the  ruins  of  its  ancient 
religious  edifices,  established  by  St.  Columba  565  A.  D. 


GOLDSMITH.  31 

GOLDSMITH. 

1729- 1774. 

I:c  thf  long  and  brilliant  list  of  writers  who  have  made  enduring  contributions  to  English  lit- 
erature there  is  no  dearer  name  than  tliat  of  Oliver  Goldsmith.     He  seems  the  personal  friend 
:  all  who  read  his  writings,  and  those  who  are  familiar  with  the  strange,  sad  story  of  his  life 
iirrish  his  memory  with  a  tender  affection.     lie  was  bom  in  Ireland  in  1729  and  died  in  177-*, 
spending  most  of  his  life  in  London,  where  he  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  Johnson  and  other 
eminent  authors.     Ilis  early  career  was  full  of  vicissitudes ;  he  sauntered  through  the  first  years 
of  manhood  with  empty  pockets  and  smiling  lips,  studying  medicine  by  fits  and  starts,  wandcr- 
1'^  through  Europe,  winning  his  bread  by  the  exercise  of  his  musical  talents,  and  at  last  settling 
...wn  in  London  to  the  miserable  lot  of  a  literary  hack.     But  he  made  friends  wherever  he  M-ent ; 
that  he  won  and  retained  the  warm  friendship  of  Samuel  Johnson,  a  notoriously  selfish  man,  ia 
pnot  positive  of  the  strength  of  his  fascinations.     He  wrote  his  most  famous  works  almoat 
literally  under  the  pressure  of  hunger  ;  the  manuscript  of  one  of  them  was  sold  to  discharge  an 
vrcution,  while  the  officers  of  the  law  waited  in  the  author's  lodgings.    Goldsmith's  nature  was 
.  luincntly  lovable ;  there  was  no  bitterness  or  guile  in  it ;  he  loved  his  fellows  and  was  in  turn 
Ixlovcd.    The  qualities  of  his  heart,  as  well  as  those  of  his  intellect,  are  manifest  in  his  writings, 
and  give  them  the  sweetness  that  the  highest  intellectual  power  or  culture  could  not  impart. 
In  Tkf  near  of  Wakefield  his  name  will  live  forever,  and,  so  long  as  poetry  survives.  The  Trat- 
eler  and  7TU  DaerUd  Village  will  be  read  and  admired.     Ilis  versatility  was  astonishing ;  he  was 
a  poet,  a  novelist,  an  essayist,  and  an  historian,  and  won  fame  in  each  department  of  effort.    Well 
has  it  been  said  of  him,  that  "  he  touched  nothing  which  he  did  not  adorn." 


THE  SAGACITY  OF  THE  SPIDEE. 

Of  all  the  solitary  insects  I  liave  ever  remarked,  the  spider  is  the 
most  sagacious,  and  its  actions,  to  me,  who  have  attentively  consid- 
red  thcni,  seem  almost  to  exceed  belief.  This  insect  is  formed  by 
nature  for  a  sUttc  of  war,  not  only  upon  other  insects,  but  upon  each 
other.  For  this  state  nature  seems  perfectly  well  to  have  formed  it. 
Its  head  and  breast  are  covertxl  with  a  strong  natural  coat  of  mail, 
which  is  impenetrable  to  the  attempts  of  every  other  insect,  and  its 
Ix'lly  is  enveloped  in  a  soft  pliant  skin,  which  eludes  the  sting  even  of 
a  wasp.  Its  legs  are  terminated  by  strong  claws,  not  unlike  those  of 
the  lobster;  and  their  vast  length,  like  spears,  serves  to  keep  every 
-sailant  at  a  distance. 

Not  worse  funiished  for  observation  than  for  an  attack  or  defense, 
it  has  several  ryes,  large,  transparent,  and  covered  with  a  homy  sub- 
stance, which,  however,  do<»s  not  impede  its  vision.  Besides  this,  it 
:>  furnished  with  a  forceps  alx)ve  the  mouth,  which  senes  to  kill  or 
M'cure  the  prey  already  caught  in  its  claws  or  its  net. 

Such  are  the  implements  of  war  with  which  the  body  i^  ini medi- 
ately furnished ;  but  its  net  to  entangle  the  enemy  seems  to  be  what 


82  cathcart's  lttbeary  reader. 

it  chiefly  trusts  to,  and  what  it  takes  most  pains  to  render  as  complete 
as  possible.  Nature  has  furnished  the  body  of  this  little  creature 
with  a  glutinous  liquid,  which,  proceeding  from  the  lower  extremity 
of  the  body,  it  spins  into  a  thread,  coarser  or  finer  as  it  chooses  to 
contract  its  sphincter.*  In  order  to  fix  its  threads  when  it  begins  to 
weave,  it  emits  a  small  drop  of  its  liquid  against  the  wall,  which, 
hardening  by  degrees,  sen'es  to  hold  the  threatl  veiy  firndy.  Tlieii 
receding  from  the  first  point,  as  it  recedes  the  thread  lengthens  ;  and 
when  the  spider  has  come  to  the  place  where  the  other  end  of  the 
thread  shouUl  be  fixed,  gathering  up  with  its  claws  the  thread,  which 
would  otherwise  be  too  skck,  it  is  stretched  tightly,  and  fixed  in  the 
same  manner  to  the  wall  as  before. 

In  this  manner  it  spins  and  fixes  several  threads  parallel  to  each 
other,  which,  so  to  speak,  ser^e  as  the  warp  to  the  intended  web. 
To  form  the  woof,  it  spins  in  the  same  manner  its  thread,  transversely 
fixing  one  end  to  the  first  thread  that  was  spun,  and  which  is  always 
the  strongest  of  the  whole  web,  and  the  other  to  the  wall.  All  these 
threads,  being  newly  spun,  are  glutinous,  and  therefore  stick  to  each 
other  wherever  they  happen  to  touch ;  and  in  those  parts  of  the  web 
most  exposed  to  be  torn  our  natural  artist  strengthens  them,  by 
doubling  the  thread  sometimes  six-fold. 

Thus  far  naturalists  have  gone  in  the  description  of  this  animal  : 
what  follows  is  the  result  of  my  own  observation  upon  that  species  of 
insect  called  the  house-spider.  I  perceived,  about  four  years  ago,  a 
large  spider  in  one  comer  of  my  room,  making  its  web,  and  though 
the  maid  frequently  leveled  her  fatal  broom  against  the  labors  of 
the  little  animal,  I  had  the  good  fortune  then  to  prevent  its  destruc- 
tion, and,  I  may  say,  it  more  than  paid  me  by  the  entertainment  it 
liiForded. 

In  three  days  the  web  was  with  incredible  diligence  completed ; ' 
nor  coidd  I  avoid  thinking  that  the  insect  seemed  to  exult  in  its  new 
abode.  It  frequently  traversed  it  round,  and  examined  the  strength 
of  every  part  of  it,  retired  into  its  hole,  and  came  out  very  frequently. 
The  first  enemy,  however,  it  had  to  encounter,  was  another  and  a 
much  larger  spider,  which  having  no  web  of  its  own,  and  having 
probably  exhausted  all  its  stock  in  former  labors  of  this  kind,  came 
to  invade  the  property  of  its  neighbor.  Soon,  then,  a  terrible  encoun- 
ter ensued,  in  which  the  invader  seemed  to  have  the  victory,  and  the 

*  SPHiNCTim.    A  muscle  that  contracts  or  shuts  the  mouth  of  an  orifice. 


GOLDSMITH.  33 

laborious  spider  was  obliged  to  take  refuge  in  its  hole.  Upon  this  I 
perceived  the  victor  using  every  art  to  draw  the  enemy  from  its 
stroiij^hold.  He  seemed  to  go  otf,  but  quickly  returned,  and  when 
He  found  all  arts  vain,  began  to  demolish  the  new  wtb  without  mercy. 
This  brought  on  another  battle,  and,  contrary  to  my  expectations,  the 
laborious  spider  became  conqueror,  and  fairly  killed  his  antagonist. 

Now,  then,  in  peaceful  possession  of  what  was  justly  its. own,  it 
waited  three  days  with  the  utmost  impatience,  repairing  the  breaches 
of  its  web,  and  taking  no  sustenance  that  I  could  perceive.  At  last, 
however,  a  large  blue  fly  fell  into  the  snare,  and  struggled  hard  to  get 
l(X)se.  The  spider  gave  it  leave  to  entangle  itself  as  much  as  possible, 
but  it  seemed  to  be  too  strong  for  the  cobweb.  I  must  own  I  was 
LCreatly  surprised  when  I  saw  the  spider  immediately  sally  out,  and  in 
less  than  a  minute  weave  a  net  round  its  aiptive,  by  which  the  motion 
of  its  wings  was  stopj)ed,  and  when  it  was  fairly  hampered  in  this 
manner,  it  was  seized  and  dragged  into  the  hole. 

In  this  manner  it  lived,  in  a  precarious  state,  and  nature  seemed  to 
have  fitted  it  for  such  a  life  ;  for  upon  a  single  fly  it  subsisted  for 
more  than  a  week.  I  once  put  a  wasp  into  the  net,  but  when  the 
spider  came  out  in  order  to  seize  it  as  usual,  upon  perceiving  what 
kind  of  an  enemy  it  had  to  deal  with,  it  instantly  broke  all  the  bands 
tliat  held  it  fast,  and  contributed  all  that  lay  in  its  power  to  disen- 
gage so  formidable  an  antagonist.  When  the  wasp  was  at  liberty, 
I  expected  the  spider  would  have  set  about  repairing  the  breaches 
tiiat  were  made  in  its  net ;  but  those,  it  seems,  were  irreparable, 
wherefore  the  cobweb  was  now  entirely  forsaken,  and  a  new  one 
begun,  which  was  completed  in  the  usual  time . 

I  had  now  a  mind  to  try  how  many  cobwebs  a  single  spider  could 
furnish  ;  wherefore  I  destroyed  this,  and  the  insect  set  about  another. 
When  I  destroy etl  the  other  also,  its  whole  stock  seemed  entirely  ex- 
hausted, and  it  could  spin  no  more.  The  arts  it  made  use  of  to 
support  itself,  now  deprived  of  its  great  means  of  subsistence,  were 
indeed  surprising.  I  have  seen  it  roll  up  its  legs  like  a  baU,  and  lie 
motionless  for  hours  together,  but  cautiously  watching  all  the  time ; 
when  a  fly  happened  to  approach  sufficiently  near,  it  would  dart  out 
all  at  once,  and  often  seize  its  prey. 

Of  this  life,  however,  it  soon  began  to  grow  weary,  and  resolved  to 
invade  the  possession  of  some  other  spider,  since  it  could  not  make  a 
web  of  its  own.  It  formed  an  attack  upon  a  neighboring  fortifica- 
2*  c 


'64:  CATHCAET  S    LITEIIAEY    READER. 

tion,  with  great  vigor,  and  at  first  was  vigorously  repulsed.  Not 
daunted,  however,  with  one  defeat,  in  this  manner  it  continued  to  lay 
siege  to  another's  web  for  three  days,  and  at  length,  having  killed  the 
defendant,  actually  took  possession.  When  smaller  flics  happen  to 
fall  into  the  snare,  the  spider  does  not  sally  out  at  once,  but  vcrv 
patiently  waits  till  it  is  sure  of  them;  for  upon  his  immediate! \ 
approaching,  the  terror  of  his  appearance  might  give  the  captive 
strength  sufficient  to  get  loose;  the  manner,  then,  is  to  wait  patiently 
till,  by  ineifectuxU  and  impotent  struggles,  the  captive  has  wasted  all 
his  strength,  and  then  he  becomes  a  certain  and  easy  conquest. 

The  insect  I  am  now  describing  livexl  three  years ;  evciy  year  ii 
changed  its  skin,  and  got  a  new  set  of  legs.  At  first  it  dreaded  my 
approach  to  it^  web  ;  but  at  last  it  became  so  familiar  as  to  take  a  fly 
out  of  my  hand,  and  upon  my  touching  any  part  of  the  web,  would 
immediately  leave  its  hole,  prepared  either  for  a  defense  or  an  attack. 

THE   DESEBTED   VILLAGE. 

Sweet  Auburn !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  laboring  swain. 

Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid 

And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed ; 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease. 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please ; 

How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green. 

Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene ; 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm,  — 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm. 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill. 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  scats  beneath  the  shade. 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made ! 

How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day. 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play. 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree. 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed ; 

And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground. 


GOLDSMITH.  ^6 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round ; 

And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired. 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 

By  holding  out,  to  tire  each  other  down ; 

The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face. 

While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place ; 

The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love. 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove,  — 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village  !  sports  like  these. 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  even  toil  to  please  ; 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed. 

These  were  thy  charms  —    But  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn. 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  ; 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain  ; 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day. 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way ; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all. 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  moldering  wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand. 
Far,  far  away  thy  child ron  loave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay  ; 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish  or  may  fade  ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made ; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began. 


oO  LATHCAKi  S    LilhUAUi     KLADLR. 

When  every  rood  of  gjoiind  maintained  its  man  ; 
For  liim  light  lalx)r  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more ; 
His  best  companions,  innoftince  and  health. 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  arc  altered  ;  tradt-'s  untWling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose. 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumberous  pomp  repose: 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied. 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room. 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene. 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green ; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

HOME. 

But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below. 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know  ? 
The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own ; 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas. 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease : 
The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  line, 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine. 
Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave. 
And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave. 
Such  is  the  patriot's  boast,  where'er  we  roam, 
His  first,  best  country  ever  is  at  home. 
And  'yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind ; 
As  difterent  good,  by  art  or  nature  given. 
To  different  nations  makes  their  blessing  even. 


BURKE.  37 

BURKE. 

1730- 1797. 

F.DMrND  BuKKK  w»»  bom  in  Publin  in  1730  and  died  in  17^7-  Vnlikc  his  j^rrat  confcm- 
l>..r:iry.  Pitt,  he  VM  not  a  jrouthful  prodigy,  but  was  a  warm-hearted  boy  of  apparently  average 
tuuilcctual  capacity.  Having  graduated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  he  went  to  London  and 
entered  upon  the  study  of  law.  But  the  profession  did  not  suit  him,  and  he  soon  abandoned  it, 
and  devoted  himself  to  literary  labors.  His  first  considerable  work  was  an  essay  entitled  A 
Vimdicatiom  of  Natural  Society.  It  was  a  parody  on  the  works  of  Lord  Bolingbrokc,  who  had 
niaiutained  that  natural  religion  is  sufficient  for  man,  and  that  he  docs  not  need  a  revelation. 
Hit  second  book  was  one  which  gave  him  permanent  and  honorable  flame,  —  Ah  Inquiry  into  the 
OriijiH  of  our  Ideas  oh  the  Sublime  and  BeoMtiful.  In  1769  Burke  returned  to  Ireland  as  private 
strntary  to  William  Gerard  Hamilton  (known  in  history  as  "  Single-Speech  Hamilton  "),  Chief 
"^i  <  rrinry  to  the  Lord  Lieutenant.  He  held  Ids  place  but  a  short  time,  and  left  it  to  become  Sec- 
1 1' my  to  the  Marquis  of  Rockingham.  Soon  obtaining  a  scat  in  Parliament  he  began  the  bril- 
li.-iiit  political  career  the  particulars  of  which  are  familiar  to  all.  He  was  especially  prominent 
III  tin-  debates  upon  the  American  War,  and  displayed  a  more  thorough  knowledge  of  the  subject 
thnii  any  of  his  eolleagues.  In  \19li  a  political  scheme,  of  which  he  was  the  organizer,  having 
faded,  he  retired  to  private  life.  Burke  was  not  a  popular  man  -,  he  alienated  his  closest  friends 
by  the  singularity  and  obstinacy  of  his  opinions  ;  but  remembering  that  Goldsmith  loved  him,  and 
tlni  he  had  befriended  George  Crabbe  in  the  hour  of  the  latter's  extremity,  we  cannot  doubt  tliat 
he  had  a  kiad  heart.'  A*  a  writer  Burke  stands  in  the  very  front  rank.  We  give  extracts  from 
one  of  hi*  speediei  oa  the  Americaa  War,  and  from  his  very  celebrated  essay,  Reflectiom  oh  the 


ON  CONCILIATION  WITH  AMEEICA  * 

My  hold  of  the  Colonies  is  in  the  close  affection  which  grows  from 
common  names,  from  kindred  blood,  from  similar  privileges,  and  equal 
protection.  These  are  ties  which,  though  light  as  air,  are  as  strong 
as  links  of  iron.  Let  the  Colonies  always  keep  the  idea  of  their  civil 
rights  associated  with  your  government ;  —  they  will  cling  and  grap- 
]>le  to  you  ;  aud  no  force  under  heaven  will  l)e  of  power  to  tear  tliem 
from  tlieir  allegiance.  But  let  it  be  once  understood,  that  your  gov- 
ernment may  be  one  thing  and  their  privileges  another ;  that  these 
two  things  may  exist  without  any  mutual  relation :  the  cement  is 
gone  ;  the  cohesion  is  loosened  ;  and  everything  hastens  to  decay  and 
dissolution.  As  long  as  you  have  the  wisdom  to  keep  the  sovereign 
authority  of  this  country  as  the  sanctuary  of  liberty,  the  sacred  tem- 
ple conswnited  to  our  common  faith,  wherever  the  chosen  race  and 
xms  of  England  worship  freedom,  they  will  turn  their  faces  towanls 
you.     The  more  they  multiply,  the  more  friends  you  will  have ;  the 

*  During  Ihi*  Revolutionary  War,  Burke  was  a  member  of  the  British  Parlinment.    He  op- 
posfd  the  r(XTcive  policy  of  George  III.,  being  in  favor  of  conciliation. 


88  cathcart's  literabt  reader. 

more  ardently  they  love  liberty,  the  more  perfect  will  be  their  obedi- 
ence. Slavery  they  v&n  have  anywhere.  It  is  a  weed  that  grows  in 
every  soil.  They  may  have  it  from  Spain,  they  may  have  it  from 
Prussia.  But,  until  you  become  lost  to*  all  feeling  of  your  true  inter- 
est and  your  natural  dignity,  freedom  they  can  have  from  none  but 
you.  This  is  the  commodity  of  price,  of  which  you  have  the  monop- 
oly. This  is  the  true  act  of  navigation,  which  binds  to  you  the  com- 
merce of  the  Colonies,  and  through  them  secures  to  you  the  wealth  of 
the  world.  Deny  them  this  participation  of  freedom,  and  you  break 
that  sole  bond  which  originally  made,  and  must  still  preserve,  the 
unity  of  the  empire.  Do  not  entertain  so  weak  an  imagination,  as 
that  your  registers  and  your  bonds,  your  affidavits  and  your  suffer- 
ances, your  cockets  and  your  clearances,  are  what  form  the  great 
securities  of  your  commerce.  Do  not  dream  that  your  letters  of 
office,  and  your  instructions,  and  your  suspending  clauses,  are  the 
things  that  hold  together  the  great  contexture  of  this  mysterious 
whole.  These  things  do  not  make  your  government.  Dead  instru- 
ments, passive  tools  as  they  are,  it  is  the  spirit  of  the  English  com- 
munion that  gives  all  their  life  and  efficacy  to  them.  It  is  the  spirit 
of  the  English  constitution,  which,  infused  through  the  mighty  mass, 
pervades,  feeds,  unites,  invigorates,  vivifies  every  part  of  the  empire, 
even  down  to  the  minutest  member. 

Is  it  not  the  same  virtue  which  does  everything  for  us  here  in 
England  ?  Do  you  imagine,  then,  that  it  is  the  land  tax  act  which 
raises  your  revenue  ?  that  it  is  the  annual  vote  "in  the  committee  of 
supply,  which  gives  you  your  army  ?  or  that  it  is  the  mutiny  bill, 
which  inspires  it  with  bravery  and  discipline?  No!  surely  no!  It 
is  the  love  of  the  people ;  it  is  their  attachment  to  their  government, 
from  the  sense  of  the  deep  stake  they  have  in  such  a  glorious  institu- 
tion, which  gives  you  your  army  and  your  navy,  and  infuses  into 
both  that  liberal  obedience,  without  which  your  army  would  be  a  base 
rabble,  and  your  navy  nothing  but  rotten  timber. 

All  this,  I  know  well  enough,  will  sound  wild  and  chimerical  to 
the  profane  herd  of  those  vulgar  and  mechanical  politicians,  who  have 
no  place  among  us ;  a  sort  of  people  who  think  that  nothing  exists 
but  what  is  gross  and  material ;  and  who  therefore,  far  from  being 
qualified  to  be  directors  of  the  great  movement  of  empire,  are  not  fit 
to  tuni  a  wheel  in  the  machine.  JBut  to  men  truly  initiated  and 
rightly  taught,   these   ruling   and   master  principles,  which,  in  the 


BURKE. 


89 


opinion  of  such  men  ns  1  have  mentioned,  have  no  substantial  exist- 
ence, are  in  truth  everything,  and  all  in  all.  Magnanimity  in  politics 
is  not  seldom  the  truest  wisdom ;  and  a  great  empire  and  little  minds 
tro  ill  together.  If  we  are  conscious  of  our  situation,  and  glow  with 
zt!al  to  fill  our  places  as  becomes  our  station  and  ourselves,  we  ought 
to  auspicate  our  public  proceedings  on  America  with  the  old  warning 
of  tlie  Church,  Sursum  Cor  da  !  *  We  ought  to  elevate  our  minds  to 
tlie  greatness  of  that  trust  to  which  the  order  of  Providence  has 
called  us.  By  adverting  to  the  dignity  of  this  high  calling,  our 
ancestors  have  turned  a  savage  wilderness  into  a  glorious  empire ; 
and  have  made  the  most  extensive,  and  the  only  honorable  conquests, 
not  by  destroying,  but  by  promoting  the  wealth,  the  number,  the 
happiness  of  the  human  race.  Let  us  get  an  American  revenue  as 
we  liave  got  an  American  empire.  English  privileges  have  made  it 
all  that  it  is  ;  English  privileges  alone  will  make  it  all  it  can  be. 

TEE  DECAT  OF  CHIYALBOUS  SEiniMEirr.t 

It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I  saw  the  Queen 
of  France,  then  the  Dauphiness,  at  Versailles ;  and  surely  never 
lighted  on  this  orb,  which  she  hardly  seemed  to  touch,  a  more  de- 
lightful vision.  I  saw  her  just  above  the  horizon,  decorating  and 
cheering  the  elevated  sphere  she  just  began  to  move  in,  —  glittering 
like  the  morning  star,  full  of  life  and  splendor  and  joy.  O,  what  a 
revolution!  and  what  a  heart  must  I  have,  to  contemplate  without 
emotion  that  elevation  and  that  fall !  Little  did  I  dream  when  she 
added  titles  of  venenition  to  those  of  enthusiastic,  distant,  respectful 
love,  that  she  should  ever  be  obliged  to  carry  the  sharp  antidote 
against  disgrace  concealed  in  that  bosom ;  little  did  I  dream  that  I 
should  have  lived  to  see  such  disasters  fallen  upon  her  in  a  nation  of 
gallant  men,  in  a  nation  of  men  of  honor,  and  of  cavaliers.  I  thought 
ten  thousand  swords  must  have  leaped  from  their  scabbards  to  avenge 
even  a  look  that  threatened  her  with  insult.  But  the  age  of  chivalry 
is  gone.  That  of  sophisters,  economists,  and  calcidators  has  sur- 
rn(l((l ;   and  the  glory  of  Europe  is  extinguished  forever.     Never, 

*  SvBSVM  CoiDA,  Ufl  mp  ycmr  krnrU. 

t  This  is  jiutly  esUiiiated  as  one  of  the  flnest  rlwtoried  piaw|eri  b  oor  UmguKe.  It 
rrfrn  to  the  execntion  of  Marie  Antoinette,  wife  of  Loaia  XVI.,  and  Queen  of  Prance.  She  was 
Kuillntined  by  the  Jaroliin*  in  17^1,  during  the  eclehrated  French  Rcralution.  The 
about  the  "  afe  of  chi\idry  "  and  the  "  ^eay  defenae  of  Halions  "  hai-e  become  Auuoai. 


40  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

n(  V(  r  more  shall  we  behold  that  generous  loyalty  to  rank  and  s(  x, 
that  proud  submission,  that  dignified  obedience,  tliat  subordination 
(>r  tlu  heart,  which  kept  alive,  even  in  scTvitude  itself,  the  spirit  of  an 
exahrd  iVcfdoiii.      'i'lic  u.  '  ran-  of  lilV,  the   clicap  defense  of 

nations,  the  nurse  of  mauls  Muiinu-nt  and  heruic  enterjirise.  is  ut'iu-  ! 
It  is  gou( ,  tliat  sensibility  of  prineiple,  that  chastity  of  honor,  which 
felt  a  stain  like  a  wound,  wliieh  inspired  courage  whilst  it  mitigated 
fenH'ity,  which  ennobled  whatcvir  it  touched,  and  under  which  vice 
iisrit  lost  lialf  its  evil,  by  losing  all  its  grossness. 

This  mixed  syst(  ni  of  opinion  and  sentiment  had  its  origin  in  tlu 
ancient  ehivalrj' ;  and  the  prineiple,  though  varied  in  its  appearance 
)iv  the  >ii\iii^'  state  of  human  affairs,  subsisted  and  inflmnetd 
throui;h  a  long  succession  of  generations,  even  to  the  time  we  live  in. 
If  it  should  ever  be  totally  extinguished,  the  loss  1  fear  would  be 
great.  It  is  this  which  has  jxivt-u  its  character  to  modern  Kurojx'. 
It  is  this  which  has  distini^uished  it  uiuh-r  all  its  forms  ot"  i^overi  - 
nu'iit,  and  di>tinu:uished  it  to  its  advantat^c,  from  the  >t;.lts  of  A-i 
and  possibly  from  those  states  which  flourished  in  the  most  brilliant 
periods  of  the  antique  world.  It  was  this  which,  without  confound- 
ini::  rank<,  had  produced  a  nol)h'  ((jualitv,  and  han(h'd  it  dowTi 
through  all  tlu'  gradations  of  social  life.  It  was  this  opinion  which 
mitigated  kings  into  companions,  and  raised  private  men  to  be  fellows 
with  kings.  Witluuit  force,  or  opposition,  it  subdued  the  fierceness 
of  pride  and  power;  it  obliircd  sovcrcipis  to  submit  to  the  soft  collar 
of  social  esteem,  compclh-d  stern  authority  to  s\d)iuit  to  eKir.uice,  and 
gave  a  dominating  vanquisher  of  kws,  to  be  subdued  by  manners. 

But  now  all  is  to  Ik^  changed.  All  the  pleasing  illusions,  which 
made  ])o\ver  irentle  and  obedience  liberal,  which  harmonized  the  (liti"er- 
cnt  shades  of  life,  and  which,  by  a  bland  assimilation,  incorporated 
into  politics  the  sentiments  which  beautify  and  soften  private  society, 
are  to  Ix'  dissolved  ])V  this  new  coiupK  riniz;  empire  of  light  and  reason. 
All  the  decent  drapery  of  life  is  to  bt;  rudely  torn  off.  All  the 
superadded  ideas,  furnished  from  the  wardrolje  of  a  moral  imagination, 
which  the  heart  oavus  and  tlie  understanding  ratifies  as  necessary  to 
cover  the  defects  of  our  naked,  shivering  nature,  and  to  raise  it  to 
diunity  in  our  own  estimation,  are  to  be  cx])lodcd  as  a  ridiculous, 
absurd,  and   antiquated  fashion. 


COWPER.  41 

COWPER. 

1731 -i8oa 

William  Cowm  mm  born  in  1731  and  died  in  1800.  His  life  was  a  sad  one,  and  his  last 
years  were  shadowed  by  a  mental  gloom  which  almost  amounted  to  insanity.  His  thoughts 
dwelt  on  somber  themes,  and  his  jkh-'iiis,  with  a  few  exceptions,  are  didactic  to  an  unpleasant 
degree.  It  is  not  easy  to  understand  how  the  same  mind  could  have  given  birth  to  the  melan< 
choly  imaginings  which  constitute  the  staple  of  his  verse,  and  the  warm,  free  humor  of  John 
Gilpin's  Ride.  Morbid  and  unsocial  though  he  was,  Cowper  was  able  to  win  and  retain  the 
liearty  attachment  of  a  few  friends,  in  whose  tender  care  he  passed  the  closing  years  of  his  life. 
Though  not  one  of  tht  greatest  English  poets,  G)wper  holds  and  will  hold  an  honorable  place. 
His  sentiments  were  always  elevated,  and  his  expression  graceful,  if  not  exceptionally  brilliant 
or  vigorous.  He  is  emphatically  the  poet  for  thoughtful  minds.  One  of  his  best-known  poems 
is  Alexander  Selkirk,  of  which  we  give  some  specimen  stanzas. 

ALEXANDER  SELKIRK.* 

I  AM  monarch  of  all  1  survey. 

My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute ; 
From  the  center  all  round  to  the  sea 

I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 

0  Solitude,  where  are  the  charms 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face  ? 

Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

1  am  out  of  humanity's  reach ; 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone  ; 
Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech  — 

I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain 

My  form  with  indifference  see ; 
They  are  so  unacquainted  with  men, 

Their  tameness  is  shocking  to  me. 

Society,  friendship,  and  love, 

Divinely  bestowed  upon  man, 
O  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove, 

How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again  ! 

•  Alexawdkb  S«lki««  wm  •  Scottish  sailor,  who.  baring  qumlMl  on  one  of  his  vojafM 
with  his  captain,  was  left,  in  17(H,  on  the  uninhsbitwi  island  of  Joan  Femandex.  where  be 
remained  for  more  than  four  years  before  his  rescue.  Selkirk's  adventures,  it  is  said,  soggeated 
V)  Defoe  the  cclebnted  ronuuiee  of  JMuwpm  Cnuot,  with  which  aU  yoHii  people  nre  fcmiliar. 


^2  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

My  sorrows  I  then  might  assuage 
In  the  ways  of  religion  and  truth ; 

Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 
And  be  cheered  by  the  sallies  of  youth. 

Eeligion  !  what  treasure  untold 

Besides  in  that  heavenly  word  ! 
More  precious  than  silver  and  gold, 

Or  all  that  this  earth  can  afford. 
But  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell 

These  valleys  and  rocks  never  heard,  — 
Never  sighed  at  the  sound  of  a  knell. 

Or  smiled  when  a  Sabbath  appeared. 

Te  winds  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 
Some  cordial  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  I  shall  visit  no  more. 
My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  ? 
O  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend. 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 

How  fleet  is  a  glance  of  the  mind  ! 

Compared  with  the  speed  of  its  flight. 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 

And  the  swift-winged  arrows  of  light. 
When  I  think  of  my  outi  native  laud, 

In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there  ; 
But,  alas  !  recollection  at  hand 

Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

But  the  sea-fowl  is  gone  to  her  nest ; 

The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair ; 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest. 

And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 
There 's  mercy  in  every  place ; 

And  mercy,  encouraging  thought ! 
Gives  even  affliction  a  grace. 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 


OIBBON.  43 


GIBBON. 

1737-1794- 

Edward  Gibbon,  the  historian,  was  bora  in  Surrey,  England,  in  1^37,  and  died  in  17M. 
He  entered  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  but  remained  only  a  short  time.  A.t  an  early  age  he 
liccame  deqily  interested  in  religion,  and  devoted  himself  to  study,  relieving  the  t£dium  of  his 
labors  by  assiduous  courtship  of  Mademoiiclle  Curchod,  whose  acquaintance  he  made  in  Switzer- 
land. The  lady  inclined  to  him ;  but  her  father  did  not,  and  she  finally  married  M.  Necker, 
and  became  the  mother  of  Madame  de  Stael.  In  1759  he  returned  to  England  and  was 
11  huittcd  into  the  most  cultivated  society.  Two  years  later  he  published  in  French  an  Essay  on 
tti.-  Study  of  lAteraturt,  which  attracted  but  little  attention  in  England.  In  1763  he  went  to 
li:»ii.i-,  and  became  the  intimate*  friend  of  Helvetius,  D'Alcmlwrt,  Diderot,  and  other  eminent 
lucu.  The  next  year  he  went  to  Rome,  and  there  conceived  the  project  of  writing  the  history  of 
Tkf  Dfcline  and  Fall  of  Ike  Roman  Empire.  In  1776  the  first  volume  of  this  great  work  was 
published,  and  at  once  made  him  famous.  His  attacks  on  Christianity  called  out  many  severe 
ril)ukc8,  which  enhanced  the  popular  interest  in  his  book.  The  concluding  volumes  of  the 
Historj-  appeared  in  17»7-  The  author's  last  literary  work  was  his  own  Autobiography,  which 
has  been  pronounced  the  finest  specimen  of  that  kind  of  composition  in  the  English  language. 
Till-  graces  of  Gibbon's  style  have  always  been  the  subject  of  wonder  and  admiration.  In  his 
History  he  is  stately  and  magnificent;  in  his  Autobiography  he  is  easy,  spirited,  and  charming. 
1  h'-  style  of  his  History  has  been  censured  by  some  critics  for  its  excessive  eUboration,  and  iu 
upuknce  of  French  phrases  ;  but  the  general  verdict  of  literary  authorities  of  his  own  and  later 
ages  awards  him  the  highest  rank  among  English  historians  as  a  master  of  the  hinguage. 


ABABIA. 

In  the  dreary  waste  of  Arabia,  a  boundless  level  of  sand  is  inter- 
sected by  shai-p  and  naked  mountains  ;  and  the  face  of  the  desert, 
without  shade  or  shelter,  is  scorched  by  the  direct  and  intense  rays 
of  a  tropical  sun.  Instead  of  refreshing  breezes,  the  winds,  particu- 
larly from  the  southwest,  diffuse  a  noxious  and  even  deadly  vapor; 
the  hillocks  of  sand  which  they  alternately  raise  and  scatter  are  com- 
pared to  the  billows  of  the  ocean,  and  whole  caravans,  whole  annies, 
have  been  lost  and  burii^d  in  the  whirlwind.  The  common  benefits 
of  water  are  an  object  of  desire  and  contest ;  and  such  is  the  scarcity  of 
wood,  that  some  art  is  requisite  to  preserve  and  propagate  the  element 
of  fire.  Arabia  is  destitute  of  navigable  rivers,  which  fertilize  the  soil, 
and  convey  its  produce  to  the  adjacent  regions ;  the  torrents  that  fall 
from  the  hills  are  imbibed  by  the  thirsty  earth ;  the  rare  and  hardy 
plants,  the  tamarind  or  the  acacia,  that  strike  their  roots  into  the  clefts 
of  the  rocks,  are  nourishwl  by  the  dews  of  the  night :  a  scanty  supply 
of  rain  is  collected  in  cisterns  and  aqurdnrts  :  the  wells  and  springs 
are  the  secret  treasure  of  the  desert ;   and  the  pilgrim  of  Mecca,* 

*  Mkcca.    a  dty  in  Arabia  and  the  birthplace  of  Mahomet,  •  eelebr»ted  religions  tearber  and 
pretended  nroohet.  Ijorn  about  7M)  a.  n.     He  was  the  feoader  of  one  of  the  most  widely  diffused 


44  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

after  many  a  dry  and  sultry  march,  is  disgusted  by  the  taste  of  the 
waters,  which  have  rolled  over  a  bed  of  sulphur  or  salt.  Such  is 
the  general  and  genuine  picture  of  the  climate  of  Arabia.  The 
experience  of  evil  enhances  the  value  of  any  local  or  partial  enjoy- 
ments. A  shady  grove,  a  green  pasture,  a  stream  of  fresh  water. 
are  sufficient  to  attract  a  colony  of  sedentary  Arabs  to  the  fortunate 
spots  which  can  afford  food  and  refreshment  to  themselves  and 
their  cattle,  and  which  encourage  their  industry  in  the  cultivation 
of  the  palm-tree  and  the  vine.  The  high  lands  that  border  on  the 
Indian  Ocean  are  distinguished  by  their  superior  plenty  of  wood  and 
water:  the  air  is  more  temperate,  the  fruits  are  more  delicious,  the 
animids  and  the  human  race  more  numerous  :  the  fertility  of  the  soil 
invites  and  rewanls  the  toil  of  the  husbandman ;  and  peculiar  gifts  of 
frankincense  and  coffee  have  attracted  in  different  ages  the  merchants 
of  the  woHd. 

Arabia,  in  the  opinion  of  the  naturalist,  is  the  genuine  and  original 
country  of  the  hone  ;  the  climate  most  propitious,  not  indeed  to  the 
size,  but  to  the  spirit  and  swiftness,  of  that  generous  animal.  The 
merit  of  the  Barb,  the  Spanish,  and  the  English  breed,  is  derived 
from  a  mixture  of  Arabian  blood;  the  Bedoweensf  preserve,  with 
superstitious  care,  the  honors  and  the  memory  of  the  purest  race  : 
the  males  are  sold  at  a  high  price,  but  the  females  are  seldom  alien- 
ated :  and  the  birth  of  a  noble  foal  was  esteemed,  among  the  tribes, 
as  a  subject  of  joy  and  mutuid  congratulation.  These  horses  are 
educated  in  tents,  among  the  children  of  the  Arabs,  with  a  tender 
familiarity,  which  trains  them  in  the  habits  of  gentleness  and  attach- 
ment. They  are  accustomed  only  to  walk  and  to  gallop :  their 
sensations  are  not  blunted  by  the  incessant  abuse  of  the  spur  and  the 
whip :  their  powers  are  reserved  for  the  moments  of  flis^ht  and 
pursuit :  but  no  sooner  do  they  feel  the  touch  of  the  hand  or  the 
stimip,  than  they  dart  away  with  the  swiftness  of  the  wind  :  and  if 
their  friend  be  dismounted  in  the  rapid  career,  they  instantly  stop  till 
he  has  recovered  his  seat.  In  the  sands  of  Africa  and  Arabia  the 
camel  is  a  sacred  and  precious  gift.  That  strong  and  patient  beast 
of  burden  can  perform,  without  eating  or  drinking,  a  journey  of 
several  days ;  and  a  reservoir  of  fresh  water  is  preserved  in  a  large 

religions  of  the  globe.  (See  Giblxn's  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roma*  Empire,  Chap.  I.,  and 
Irring's  Mahomrt  and  his  Successors.) 

f  Bedoweens,  Bedociks.    a  tribe  of  nomadic  Arabs  who  live  in  tents,  and  are  scattered 
over  the  deserts  of  Arabia,  Egypt,  and  parts  of  Africa. 


GIBBON.  45 

kig,  a  fifth  stomach  of  the  animal,  whose  Ixxly  is  imprinted  with  the 
marks  of  servitude :  the  larger  breed  is  capable  of  transporting  a 
weight  of  a  thousand  p)unds ;  and  the  dromedary,  of  a  lighter  and 
more  active  frame,  outstrips  the  fleetest  courser  in  the  race.  Alive  or 
(Irad,  almost  every  part  of  the  camel  is  serviceable  to  man  :  her  milk 
is  plentiful  aud  nutritious:  the  young  and  tender  flesh  has  the  taste 
'{'  veal ;  and  the  long  hair,  which  falls  each  year  and  is  renewed,  is 
( oarsely  manufactured  into  the  garments,  the  furniture,  and  the  tents 
of  the  Bedoweens. 

The  perpetual  independence  of  the  Arabs  has  been  the  theme  of 
praise  among  strangers  and  natives;  and  the  arts  of  controversy 
transform  this  singular  event  into  a  prophecy  and  a  miracle,  in 
favor  of  the  posterity  of  Ishmael.*  Some  exceptions,  that  can  neither 
l)e  dissembled  nor  eluded,  render  this  mode  of  reasoning  as  indis- 
creet Jis  it  is  superfluous.  Yet  these  exceptions  are  temporary  or 
local ;  the  body  of  the  nation  has  escaped  the  yoke  of  the  most 
powerful  monarchies;  the  armies  of  Sesostrisf  and  Cyrus, J  of 
Pompey^  and  Trajan, ||  could  never  achieve  the  conquest  of  Arabia; 
the  present  sovereign  of  the  Turks  may  exercise  a  shadow  of  juris- 
diction, but  his  pride  is  reduced  to  solicit  the  friendship  of  a  people 
whom  it  is  dangerous  to  provoke,  and  fruitless  to  attack.  The  obvious 
causes  of  their  freedom  are  inscril)ed  on  the  character  and  country  of 
the  Arabs.  Many  ages  before  Mahomet,  their  intrepid  valor  had 
been  severely  felt  by  their  neighbors,  in  off"ensive  and  defensive  war. 
The  patient  and  active  virtues  of  a  soldier  are  insensibly  nursed  in 
the  habits  and  discipline  of  a  pastoral  life.  The  care  of  the  sheep 
and  camels  is  abandoned  to  the  women  of  the  tribe ;  but  the  martial 
youth,  under  the  bantier  of  the  emir,  is  ever  on  horseback,  and  in 
the  lield,  to  practice  the  exercise  of  the  bow,  the  javelin,  and  the  scym- 
etar.  The  long  memory  of  their  independence  is  the  firmest  pledge 
of  its  perp<'tuity,  and  succeeding  generations  are  atiimated  to  prove 
their  descent,  and  to  maintain  their  inheritance.  In  the  more  simple 
stat«'  of  the  Arabs,  the  nation  is  free,  because  each  of  her  sons  dis- 
dains a  base  submission  to  the  will  of  a  master.     His  breast  is  forti- 

•  IsiiMASL.    Soa  of  Abraham  aad  Hagar,  and  the  inppoaed  anceator  of  the  Arabians. 

♦  Snosrais.    An  Egyptian  kinjc  and  warrior. 

X  Ctbc«.    TIm  faaiider  of  the  Persian  Empire ;  one  of  the  great  warricHra  mcntioaed  ia  the 
Bible. 
I  PoMrcT.    A  tuaooM  Bonao  general,  bom  106  b.  c.    (See  PtmUu-ch't  Liwet.) 
I  Tmakx.    A  Bonaa  OBpoor,  bom  S2  a  d. 


46  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

fied  with  the  austere  virtues  of  courage,  patience,  and  sobriety ;  the 
love  of  independence  prompts  him  to  exercise  the  habits  of  self-com- 
mand ;  and  the  fear  of  dishonor  guards  him  from  the  meaner  appre- 
hension of  pain,  of  danger,  and  of  death.  The  gravity  and  firmness 
of  the  mind  is  conspicuous  in  his  outward  demeanor :  his  speech  is 
slow,  weighty,  and  concise ;  he  is  seldom  provoked  to  laughter ;  his 
only  gesture  is  that  of  stroking  his  beard,  the  venerable  symbol  of 
manhood  ;  and  the  sense  of  his  own  importance  teaches  him  to  accost 
his  equals  without  levity,  and  his  superiors  without  awe. 

AEABIA  {continued). 

The  separation  of  the  Arabs  from  the  rest  of  mankind  has  accus- 
tomed them  to  confound  the  ideas  of  stranger  and  enemy  ;  and  the 
poverty  of  the  land  has  intrmluced  a  maxim  of  jurisprudence  which 
they  believe  and  practice  to  the  present  hour.  They  pretend  that,  in 
the  division  of  the  earth,  the  rich  and  fertile  climates  were  assigned 
to  other  branches  of  the  human  family ;  and  that  the  posterity  of  the 
outlaw  Ishmael  might  recover,  by  fraud  or  force,  the  portion  of 
inheritance  of  which  he  had  been  unjustly  deprived.  According  to 
the  remark  of  Pliny,*  the  Arabian  tribes  are  equally  addicted  to  theft 
and  merchandise  :  the  caravans  that  traverse  the  desert  are  ransomed 
or  pillaged  ;  and  their  neighbors,  since  the  remote  times  of  Job  and 
Sesostris,  have  been  the  victims  of  their  rapacious  spirit.  If  a 
Bedoween  discovers  from  afar  a  solitary  traveler,  he  rides  furiously 
against  him,  crying,  with  a  loud  voice,  "  Undress  thyself,  thy  aunt 
(my  wife)  is  without  a  garment."  A  ready  submission  entitles  him  to 
mercy :  resistance  will  provoke  the  aggressor,  and  his  own  blood  must 
expiate  the  blood  which  he  presumes  to  shed  in  legitimate  defense. 

The  nice  sensibility  of  honor,  which  weighs  the  insult  rather  than 
the  injury,  sheds  its  deadly  venom  on  the  quarrels  of  the  Arabs :  the 
honor  of  their  women,  and  of  their  beardn,  is  most  easily  wounded ; 
an  indecent  action,  a  contemptuous  word,  can  be  expiated  only  by  the 
blood  of  the  offender ;  and  such  is  their  patient  inveteracy,  that  they 
expect  whole  months  and  years  the  opportunity  of  revenge. 

Whatever  may  be  the  pedigree  of  the  Arabs,  their  language  is 
derived  from  the  same  original  stock  with  the  Hebrew,  the  Syriac, 
and   the   Chaldean   tongues :    the   independence   of  the   tribes   was 

*  Plikt.    a  Roman  historian. 


GIBBON.  47 

marked  by  their  peculiar  dialects ;  but  each,  after  their  own,  allowed 
a  just  preference  to  the  pure  and  perspicuous  idiom  of  Mecca.  In 
Arabia,  as  well  as  in  Greece,  the  perfection  of  language  outstripped 
the  refinement  of  manners;  and  her  speech  could  diversify  the 
fourscore  names  of  honey,  the  two  hundred  of  a  serpent,  the  five 
hundred  of  a  lion,  the  thousand  of  a  sword,  at  a  time  when  this 
copious  dictionary  was  intrusted  to  the  memory  of  an  illiterate  people. 
The  monuments  of  the  Homcrites  were  inscribed  with  an  obsolete 
and  mysterious  character ;  but  the  Cufic  letters,  the  groundwork  of 
the  present  English  alphabet,  were  invented  on  the  banks  of  the 
Euphrates ;  and  the  recent  invention  was  taught  at  Mecca  by  a 
stranger  who  settled  in  that  city  after  the  birth  of  Mahomet.  The 
arts  of  grammar,  of  meter,  and  of  rhetoric  were  unknown  to  the 
freeborn  eloquence  of  the  Arabians ;  but  their  penetration  was  sharp, 
their  fancy  luxuriant,  their  wit  strong  and  sententious,  and  their 
more  elaborate  compositions  were  addressed  with  energy  and  effect 
to  the  minds  of  their  hearers.  The  genius  and  merit  of  a  rising  poet 
was  celebrated  by  the  applause  of  his  own  and  kindred  trilxjs.  The 
Arabian  poets  were  the  historians  and  moralists  of  the  age ;  and  if 
they  sympathized  with  the  prejudices,  they  inspired  and  crowned  the 
virtues,  of  their  countrymen.  The  indissoluble  union  of  generosity 
and  valor  was  the  darling  theme  of  their  song;  and  when  they  pointed 
their  keenest  satire  against  a  despicable  race,  they  affirmed,  in  the 
bitterness  of  reproach,  that  the  men  knew  not  how  to  give,  nor  the 
women  to  deny.  The  same  hospitality,  which  was  practiced  by 
Abraham,  and  celebrated  by  Homer,  is  still  renewed  in  the  camps  of 
the  Arabs.  The  ferocious  Bcdoweens,  the  terror  of  the  desert,  em- 
brace, without  inquiry  or  hesitation,  the  stranger  who  dares  to  confide 
in  their  honor  and  to  enter  their  tent.  His  treatment  is  kind  and 
respectful :  he  shares  the  wealth,  or  the  poverty,  of  his  host ;  and, 
after  a  needful  repose,  he  is  dismissed  on  his  way,  with  thanks,  with 
blessings,  and,  p<*rhaps,  with  gifts.  The  heart  and  hand  arc  nmre 
largely  expanded  by  the  wants  of  a  brother  or  a  friend ;  but  the 
heroic  acts  that  could  deserve  the  public  applause  must  have  sur- 
passed the  narrow  measure  of  discretion  and  experience.  A  dispute 
liad  arisen,  who,  among  the  citizens  of  Mecca,  was  entitled  to  the 
prize  of  generosity ;  and  a  successive  application  was  made  to  the 
three  who  were  deemed  most  worthy  of  the  (rial.  AMallah,  the  son 
of  Ablns,  had  undertaken  a  distant  journey,  and  his  foot  was  in  the 


48  cathcart's  literaky  reader. 

stirrup  when  he  heard  the  voice  of  a  suppliant.  "  O  son  of  the  uncle 
of  the  apostle  of  God,  I  am  a  traveler,  and  in  distress !  "  He  in- 
stantly dismounted  to  present  the  pilgrim  with  his  camel,  her  rich 
caparison,  and  a  purse  of  four  thousand  pieces  of  gold,  excepting  only 
the  sword,  either  for  its  intrinsic  value,  or  as  a  gift  of  an  honored 
kinsman.  The  servant  of  Kais  informed  the  second  suppliant  tlmt 
his  master  was  asleep ;  but  he  immediately  added,  "  Here  is  a  purse 
of  seven  thousand  pieces  of  gold  (it  is  all  we  have  in  the  house) ;  and 
here  is  an  order,  that  will  entitle  you  to  a  camel  and  a  slave  "  :  the 
master,  as  soon  as  he  awoke,  praised  and  enfranchised  his  faithful 
steward,  with  a  gentle  reproof,  that  by  respecting  his  slumbers  he 
had  stinted  his  bounty.  The  third  of  these  heroes,  the  blind  Arabah, 
at  the  hour  of  pniyer  was  supporting  his  steps  on  the  shoulders  of 
two  skves.  "  Alas  !  "  he  replied,  "  my  coffers  are  empty  !  but  these 
you  may  sell:  if  you  refuse,.!  renounce  them."  At  these  words, 
pushing  away  the  youths,  he  groped  along  the  wall  with  his  staff. 
The  character  of  Hatem  is  the  perfect  model  of  Arabian  virtue ;  he 
was  brave  and  liberal,  an  eloquent  poet,  and  a  successful  robber : 
forty  camels  were  roasted  at  his  hospitable  feast ;  and  at  the  prayer 
of  a  suppliant  enemy  he  restored  both  the  captives  and  the  spoil. 
The  freedom  of  his  countrj^men  disdained  the  laws  of  justice ;  they 
proudly  indulged  the  spontaneous  impulse  of  pity  and  benevolence. 


It  was  on  that  day  or  rather  night,  of  the  27th  June,  1787, 
between  the  hours  of  eleven  and  twelve,  that  I  wrote  the  last  line  of 
the  last  page  of  the  Jlise  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  in  a  summer- 
house  in  my  garden.*  After  laying  down  my  pen,  I  took  several 
turns  in  a  covered  walk  of  acacias,  which  commands  a  prospect  of  the 
country,  the  lake,  and  the  mountains.  The  air  was  temperate,  the 
sky  was  serene,  the  silver  orb  of  the  moon  was  reflected  from  the 
waters,  and  all  nature  was  silent.  I  vdW,  not  dissemble  the  first 
emotions  of  joy  on  recovery  of  my  freedom,  and  perhaps  the  estab- 
lishment of  my  fame.  But  my  pride  was  soon  humbled,  and  a  sober 
melancholy  was  spread  over  my  mind,  by  the  idea  that  I  had  taken  an 
everlasting  leave  of  an  old  and  agreeable  companion,  and  that,  what- 
soever might  be  the  future  date  of  my  History,  the  life  of  the  historian 
must  be  short  and  precarious. 

*  Gibbon  was  then  lining  at  Lausanne.  Switzerland. 


JEFF£RSON.  49 

JEFFERSON. 
1743-1826. 

Thomas  Jeitcsson  wn»  Imrn  in  Virginia  in  1743  and  died  in  1826.    He  will  lire  forerer  in 
'  )>«•  memory  of  Americans  as  the  author  of  The  Declaration  of  Independence.     He  was  President 
the  United  States,  1801-9;    was  Governor  of  Virginia,  Member  of  Congress,  Minister  to 
inrr.   Secretary  of  State,  etc.     He  is   best  known  in  literature  by  his  Notes'on  Firginia, 
>  I>rinted  in  Paris  m  17H2  ;  but  none  of  his  writings  afford  a  clearer  idea  of  his  style 
.  s  this  extract  from  his  view  of  the  character  of  Washington.     lion.  Edward  Everett 
r...-a..n  .  •'  On  JefTersoD  rests  the  imperishable  renown  of  having  penned  the  Declaration 
To  have  been  the  instrument  of  expressing,  in  one  brief,  decisive  act,  the  con- 
mi  resolution  of  a  whole  family  of  States  ;  of  unfolding,  in  one  all-important  mani- 
-i4>,  ihj  causes,  the  motives,  and  tlie  justification  of  this  great  movement  in  human  affairs ; 
have  )>cen  permitted  to  give  the  impress  and  peculiarity  of  his  mind  to  a  charter  of  public 
'  *•     )istine«l   to  an   importance  in  the  estimation  of  men  equal  to  anything  human  ever 
.  i>archment  or  expressed  in  the  visible  signs  of  thought ;  —  this  is  the  glory  of  Thomas 

CHARACTEE  OF  WASHINGTON. 

His  mind  was  great  and  powerful,  without  being  of  the  very  first 
(ler;  his  penetration  strong,  though  not  so  acute  as  that  of  New- 
•n,*  Bacon,t  or  Locke ;  %  and  as  far  as  he  saw,  no  judgment  was  ever 
•under.     It  was  slow  in  operation,  l)eing  little  aided  by  invention  or 
imagination,  but  sure  in  conclusion.     Hence  the  common  remark  of 
liis  otticers,  of  the  advantage  he  derived  from  councils  of  war,  where, 
hniring  all  suggestions,  he  selected  whatever  was  best ;  and  certainly 
MO  general  ever  planned  his  battles  more  judiciously.     But  if  de- 
iiiged  during  the  course  of  the  action,  if  any  member  of  his  plan 
>v;is  dislocated  by  sudden  circumstances,  he  was  slow  in  a  readjust- 
iDtnt.     The  consequence  was,  that  he  often  failed  in  the  field,  and 
I  rely  against  an  enemy  in  station,  as  at  Boston  and  York.     He  was 
uapable  of  fear,  meeting  personal  dangers  with  the  calmest  uncon- 
'  rn.     Perhaps  the  strongest  feature  in  his  character  was  prudence, 
iH'ver  acting  until  every  circtimstance,  every  consideration,  was  ma- 
turely weighed  ;  refraining  if  he  saw  a  doubt,  but  when  once  decided, 
•ing  through  with  his  purpose,  whatever  obstacles  opposed.     His 
itegrity  was  most  pure,  his  justice  tlie  most  inflexible  I  have  ever 

•  NrwTOK.    An  illustrious  English  philosopher  and  mathematician,  bom  1(M2.    (See  Brew- 
'  tmn  of  Sir  lnuie  Vnetcm.) 

X.    One  of  the  greatest  lawyen  and  phUoMphen  that  ever  lived,  bom  1661.    (See 
*  UtfMoftke  Lord  CkmneeUon.) 
KK.    The  author  of  the  celebrated  Awy  <m  tk*  Htmtm  VrndtnUmding,  hom  in  Engfauid. 


60  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

known ;  no  motives  of  interest  or  consanguinity,  of  friendship  or 
hatred,  being  able  to  bias  his  decision.  He  was,  indeed,  in  every  sense 
of  the  words,  a  wise,  a  good,  and  a  great  man.  His  temper  was  natu- 
rally irritable  and  high  toned;  but  reflection  and  resolution  had  obtained 
a  firm  and  habitual  ascendency  over  it.  If  ever,  however,  it  broke  its 
bounds,  he  was  most  tremendous  in  his  wrath.  In  his  expenses  he 
was  honorable,  but  exact ;  liberal  in  contributions  to  whatever  prom- 
ised utility ;  but  frowning  and  unyielding  on  all  visionary  projects, 
and  all  unworthy  calls  on  his  charity.  His  heart  was  not  warm  in 
its  aflfections ;  but  he  exactly  calculated  every  man's  value,  and  gave 
him  a  solid  esteem  proportioned  to  it.  His  person,  you  know,  was 
fine,  his  stature  exactly  what  one  would  wish ;  his  deportment  easy, 
erect,  and  noble,  the  best  horseman  of  his  age,  and  the  most  graceful 
figure  that  could  be  seen  on  horseback.  Although  in  the  circle  of  his 
friends,  where  he  might  be  unreserved  with  safety,  he  took  a  free 
share  in  conversation,  his  colloquial  talents  were  not  above  mediocrity, 
possessing  neither  copiousness  of  ideas  nor  fluency  of  words.  In 
public,  when  called  on  for  a  sudden  opinion,  he  was  unready,  short, 
and  embarrassed.  Yet  he  wrote  readily,  rather  diffusely,  in  an  easy 
and  correct  style.  This  he  had  acquired  by  conversation  with  the 
world,  for  his  education  was  merely  reading,  writing,  and  common 
arithmetic,  to  which  he  added  surveying  at  a  later  day.  His  time 
was  employed  in  action  chiefly,  reading  little,  and  that  only  in  agri- 
culture and  English  histor)'.  His  correspondence  became  necessarily 
extensive,  and  with  journalizing  his  agricultural  proceedings  occupied 
most  of  his  leisure  hours  within  doors.  On  the  whole,  his  character 
was,  in  its  mass,  perfect,  in  nothing  bad,  in  few  points  indifferent ; 
and  it  may  truly  be  said,  that  never  did  nature  and  fortune  combine 
more  completely  to  make  a  man  great,  and  to  place  him  in  the  same 
constellation  with  whatever  worthies  have  merited  from  man  an 
everlasting  remembrance.  For  his  was  the  singular  destiny  and  merit 
of  leading  the  armies  of  his  country  successfully  through  an  arduous 
war,  for  the  establishment  of  its  independence;  of  conducting  its 
councils  through  the  birth  of  a  government,  new  in  its  forms  and 
principles,  until  it  had  settled  down  into  a  quiet  and  orderly  train ; 
and  of  scrupulously  obeying  the  laws  thro\igh  the  whole  of  his  career, 
civil  and  military,  of  which  the  history  of  the  world  furnishes  no 
other  example. 


BURNS. 
1759- 1796. 

RoBEKT  BtniNs.  the  son  of  a  small  farmer,  was  bom  near  Ayr,  Scotland,  in  1769,  and  died  in 
I7M.  He  manifested  at  an  early  age  an  eager  appetite  for  learning  ;  but  his  opportunities  for 
trratifying  it  were  few  :  in  the  country  school  he  gained  the  rudiments  of  au  education  in  English 
brancht-a,  and  in  later  life  learned  something  of  French,  Latin,  and  the  higher  mathematics.  It 
IS  worthy  of  note  that  one  of  his  favorite  books,  in  boyhood,  was  Shakespeare's  Plays.  At  the 
nge  of  sixteen  he  began  to  write  verses,  striving  to  express  in  rhyme  the  emotions  excited  by 
his  first  affair  of  the  heart.  These  youthful  compositions  were  circulated  in  manuscript  among 
his  acquaintances,  and  tinally  came  to  the  notice  of  some  persons  of  literary  taste,  who  persuaded 
Bums  to  publish  a  volume.  The  venture  brought  him  fame  at  once,  and  twenty  pounds,  one 
hundred  dollars,  m  money.  He  visited  Edinburgh  on  invitation  of  Dr.  Blacklock,  and  was  well 
received  m  the  brilliant  society  of  that  city.  A  second  edition  of  his  poems,  published  in  1787, 
^  ii-lded  him  a  profit  of  seven  hundred  pounds.     But  his  gain  in  fame  and  money  from  his  visit  to 

iic  Scottish  capital^as  more  than  offset  by  his  acquisition  of  the  dissolute  habits  which  were 
licstined  to  impede  his  literary  progress  and  ultimately  to  bring  him  to  an  early  grave.  His  rank 
among  poets  it  is  not  easy  to  determine,  though  I/ord  Byron  and  Allan  Cunningham  placed  him 
among  the  first.  It  is  probable  that  in  their  estimates  they  regarded  his  promise  rather  than  his 
"-rforroance.    But  it  may  safely  be  said  that  of  all  poets  who  have  sprang  from  the  people,  receiv- 

■■\^  alnioat  no  aid  from  education,  he  was  surely  the  greatest.  He  was  the  poet  of  passion  and 
fling :  bat  his  utterances  were  simple  and  natural,  and  owed  none  of  their  force  nr  beauty  to 

LPt.  Hu  poems  glow  with  tenderness  and  the  love  of  freedom,  and  are  rich  in  a  rare,  pare 
humor  that  none  have  known  how  to  imitate. 


MAW  WAS  MADE  TO  MOUBN. 

When  chill  November's  surly  blast 

Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 
One  evening,  as  I  wandered  forth 

Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
I  spied  a  man  whose  aged  step 

Seemed  weary,  worn  with  care  : 
His  face  was  furrowed  o'er  with  years, 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

"  Young  stranger,  whither  wanderest  thou  ? 

Began  the  reverend  sage  ; 
"  Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain. 

Or  youthful  pleasures  rage  ? 
Or  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes. 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  mourn 

The  miseries  of  man  ! 


b'Z  CATHCAET^S    UTERAEY    KEADEE. 

"  The  8un  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 

Outspreading  far  and  wide, 
Where  hundreds  lal)or  to  support 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride,  — 
I  Ve  seen  yon  wear}'  winter  sun 

Twice  forty  times  return  ; 
And  every  time  has  added  proofs 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  O  man,  while  in  thy  early  years. 

How  prodigal  of  time  ! 
Misspending  all  thy  precious  hours, 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime  ! 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway  : 

Licentious  passions  burn  ; 
Which  tenfold  force  gives  Nature's  law, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

"  Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime. 

Or  manhood's  active  might ; 
Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind. 

Supported  in  his  right ; 
But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life. 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn, 
Then  age  and  want,  O  ill-matched  pair ! 

Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

*'  A  few  seem  favorites  of  fate. 

In  pleasure's  lap  carest ; 
Yet  think  not  all  the   rich  and  great 

Are  likewise  truly  blest. 
But  O,  what  crowds  in  every  land. 

All  wretched  and  forlorn. 
Through  weary  life  this  lesson  learn. 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

•'  Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills. 
Inwoven  with  our  frame. 

More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves, 
Kegret,  remorse,  and  shame ! 


BURNS.  63 


And  man,  whose  hcavcn-erectcd  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adoni, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  I 

"  See  yonder  poor,  o'erlabored  wight. 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 
Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 
And  see  his  lonlly  fellow-worm 

The  ppor  petition  spurn. 
Unmindful  though  a  weeping  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

"  If  I  *m  designed  yon  lordling's  slave,  — 

By  Nature's  law  designed,  — 
Why  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 
Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

"  Yet  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son. 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast : 
This  partial  view  of  human-kind 

Is  surely  not  the  best ! 
The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man 

Had  never,  sure,  been  Iwni, 
Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn  ! 

"  O  Death  !  the  poor  man's  dearest  friend, 

Tlie  kindest  and  the  best ! 
Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest. 
The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow, 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn  ; 
But  O,  a  blest  relief  to  those 

That  wearj-laden  mourn  !  " 


54  cathcart's  literaky  reader. 


FOE  A'  THAT,  AKD  A'  THAT. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hangs  his  h«id,  and  a*  that  ? 
The  coward-skve,  we  pass  him  by. 
And  dare  be  poor,  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a'  that ; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp ; 
The  man  's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  tho*  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 
Wear  hodden-gray,  and  a*  that ; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A  man 's  a  man,  for  a'  that. 
For  a*  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that ; 
The  honest  man,  tho'  ne'er  sae  poor, 
Is  king  o'  men  for  a*  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca*ed  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that ; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 
He  's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that. 
The  man  of  independent  mind. 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  king  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 
A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man  's  aboon  his  might, 
Guid  faith,  he  maunna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that. 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth. 
Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 
As  come  it  will  for  a'  that, 


BURNS.  55 

That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth. 
May  bear  the  gree,  and  a*  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

It 's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that ; 

That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er. 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 

BAKHOCKBUBN.* 

At  Bannockbum  the  English  lay,  — 
The  Scots  they  were  na  far  away. 
But  waited  for  the  break  o'  day 
That  glinted  in  the  east. 

But  soon  the  sun  broke  through  the  heath 
And  lighted  up  that  field  o'  death, 
When  Bnice,  wi'  saul-inspiring  breath. 
His  heralds  thus  addressed  :  — 

"  Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led, 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 
Or  to  glorious  victory  ! 

"  Now 's  the  day,  and  now  *s  the  hour ; 
See  the  front  of  battle  lour ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power,  — 
Edward  !  chains  and  slavery  ! 

*'  Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Traitor !  coward  !  turn  and  flee  I 

'•  Wha  for  Scotknd's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw. 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 
Caledonia !  on  wi*  me  ! 
*  Bamrockbuk]*.    See  Dot^  page  68. 


56  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

"  By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  I 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  —  shall  be  free ! 

*'  Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  I 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe ! 
Liberty  's  in  every  blow ! 

Forward !  let  us  do  or  die  1  '* 


OF  A'  THE  AIBT8  THE  WIKD  CAN  BLAW. 

Of  a*  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west, 
Por  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'c  best : 
Though  wild  woods  ^row,  and  rivers  row. 

And  mony  a  hill  l)etween  ; 
Baith  day  and  night,  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair : 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air : 
There 's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs, 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green ; 
There  *8  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings. 

But  minds  me  o*  my  Jean. 


But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is  shed ; 
Or  like  the  snowflake  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white,  —  then  melts  forever ; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race, 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 


W0RD8W0ETH.  57 

WORDSWORTH. 

1770- 1850. 

William  Wordswokth,  a  proraincnt  member  of  the  Lake  school  of  poets,  was  born  in  Cum* 
riand.  Eujiand,  in  1770,  and  died  in  1850.     He  was  the  son  of  an  attorney,  and  studied  at  St 
John's  College,  Cambridge.     He  spent  some  time  in  France  and  Gernmn) ,  and  in  1799  fixed  his 
liome  — which  was  presided  over  by  his  sister  IXjrothy  (his  faithful  "guide,  philosopher,  and 
friend,"  throughout  his  long  life)  —  at  Grmsmere.     Here  he  lived  till  1808.    In  1813  he  removed 
)ii«i  household  gods  to  Rydal  Mount,  which  was  ever  after  his  residence,  and  is  closely  associated 
\v  tth  the  most  notable  products  of  his  genius.     He  was  a  favorite  of  fortune,  having  inherited  a 
iinfortable  estate,  and  for  some  years  holding  a  lucrative  oflice  under  government.    In  184.3  he 
IS  appointed  Poet  Laureate,  succeeding  Southey,  and  received  the  pension  of  £  300  attached  to 
lUat  dignity  as  long  as  he  lived.    He  was  married  in  1803  to  Mary  Hutchinson,  who  survived 
him,  dying  in  1859,  at  the  great  age  of  eighty-eight.    In  his  early  manhood  Wordsworth  was 
Tiflionary  and  radical,  professing  republicanism,  and  avowing  himself  an  admirer  of  the  prin- 
ciples which  were  illustrated  in  the  French  Revolution ;  but,  as  often  happens,  age  tempered  his 
fenor,  and  during  the  latter  half  of  his  life  he  was  unfaltering  in  his  political  and  religious  con- 
wrvatisni.     His  first  liook,  ../n  Erening   Walk,  an  epistle  in  verse,  was  published  in  1793 ;  his 
■eeond,  Detcriptiwt  Skelcket,  published  in  the  same  year,  was  cordially  praised  by  Coleridge. 
Between  17W  and  1814  several  editions  of  his  poenu  were  issued,  receiving  praise  and  censure  ii» 
nearly  equal  proportions.    When  The  Excursion  appeared,  in  1814,  Lord  Jeffrey  said  of  it :  "  This 
will  never  do ;  it  is  longer,  weaker,  and  tamer  than  any  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  other  productions." 
On  the  other  liand,  William  Hazlitt  pronounced  it  almost  unsurpassed  "  in  power  of  intellect, 
lofty  conception,  and  depth  of  feeling."    On  the  whole,  it  must  be  said  that  during  Wordsworth's 
life,  or  at  least  until  within  a  few  years  prior  to  his  death,  the  judgment  of  the  critics  on  his 
poetry  was  in  effect  unfavorable;  but  with  the  great  public  his  writings  steadily  gained  popular- 
ity.   One  of  the  principal  reasons  for  the  hostility  of  the  critics  was,  no  doul)t,  his  energetic  pro- 
teat,  by  precept  and  example,  against  the  ronumtic  school  of  poetry,  which,  conspicuously  repre- 
sented by  Byron,  was  then  in  high  favor.     He  endeavored,  to  demonstrate  the  superiority  of 
simplicity  in  thought  and  expression,  and  in  the  effort  incurred  the  reproach  of  silliness.    Dur- 
-  the  last  twenty  years,  however,  a  more  candid  and  accurate  estimate  of  his  work  has  been 
..ide.  and  the  deliberate  judgment  of  the  reading  worid  has  assigned  him  an  enviable  rank  among 
Knglisli  poets  of  the  nineteenth  century.     One  of  the  most  prominent  characteristics  of  his  poeti- 
cnl  genius  is  imaginative  power,  in  which  quality  so  high  an  authority  as  Coleridge  has  affirmed 
tliat  he  was  surpassed  only  by  Shnkcsp<>arc.     His  mind  was  strongly  phik)sophicaI.  and  his  writ- 
-'»  exhibit  a  rare  union  of  philosophical  and  poetical  elements.     They  arc  distinctively  contem- 
ilive,  and  will  always  be  admired  for  their  faithful  interpretation  of  nature.     It  is  not  easy  to 
•  cify  Wordsworth's  best  composition  :  The  ExcurtioH  is  perhaps  the  greatest ;  but  to  the  com- 
•n  mind  some  of  his  lyrics  and  ballads  are  most  admirable.    Among  them  arc  Bart  Leap  Well, 
>alom  Cuckoo,  Tke  Bunks  0/  tht  Wye,  Ruth,  etc.     Some  critics  have  designated  The  Solitary 
aptr  as  his  finest  poem. 

THE  BOY  LKD  THE  OWLS. 

There  was  a  Boy  ;  ye  knew  him  well,  ye  cliffs 
And  islands  of  Winander !  many  a  time, 
At  evening,  when  the  earliest  stars  began 
To  move  along  the  edges  of  the  hills, 
Rising  or  setting,  would  he  stand  alone, 
Beneath  the  trees,  or  by  the  glimmering  lake; 
And  there,  with  fingers  interwoven,  both  hands 
3^ 


58  cathcaet's  literary  reader. 

Pressed  closely  palm  to  palm,  and  to  his  mouth 

Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instrument, 

Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent  owls, 

That  they  might  answer  him  ;  and  they  would  shout 

Across  the  watery  vale,  and  shout  again, 

Eesponsive  to  his  call,  with  quivering  peals, 

And  long  halloos,  and  screams,  and  echoes  loud 

Redoubled  and  redoubled  ;  concourse  wild 

Of  mirth  and  jocund  din  !     And,  when  a  lengthened  pause 

Of  silence  came  and  baffled  his  best  skill, 

Tlien,  sometimes,  in  that  silence,  while  he  hung 

Listening,  a  gentle  shock  of  mild  surprise 

Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 

Of  mountain  torrents  ;  or  the  visible  scene 

Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind 

With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 

Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heaven,  received 

Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 

This  Boy  was  taken  from  his  mates,  and  died 

In  childhood,  ere  he  was  full  twelve  years  old. 

Fair  is  the  spot,  most  beautiful  the  vale 

Where  he  was  bom  :  the  grassy  churchyard  hangs 

Upon  a  slope  above  the  village  school ; 

And  through  that  churchyard  when  my  way  has  led 

On  summer  evenings,  I  believe  that  there 

A  long  half-hour  together  I  have  stood 

Mute,  —  looking  at  the  grave  in  which  he  lies  ! 

ETJTH. 

When  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate. 
Her  father  took  another  mate ; 
And  Ruth,  not  seven  years  old, 
^  A  slighted  child,  at  her  own  will 

Went  wandering  over  dale  and  hill. 
In  thoughtless  freedom  bold. 

And  she  had  made  a  pipe  of  straw. 
And  from  that  oaten  pipe  could  draw 


WORDSWORTH.  59 

All  sounds  of  winds  and  floods  ; 
Had  built  a  bower  upon  the  green, 
As  if  she  from  her  birth  had  been 
An  infant  of  the  woods. 

Beneath  her  father's  roof,  alone 

She  seemed  to  live ;  her  thoughts  her  own ; 

Herself  her  own  delight ; 

Pleased  with  herself,  nor  sad,  nor  gay, 

And  passing  thus  the  livelong  day. 

She  grew  to  woman's  height. 

Thete  came  a  youth  from  Gtjorgia's  shore,  — 

A  military  casque  he  wore. 

With  splendid  feathers  dressed  ; 

He  brought  them  from  the  Cherokees  ; 

Tlie  feathers  nodded  in  the  breeze, 

And  made  a  gallant  crest. 

From  Indian  blood  you  deem  him  sprung : 
Ah,  no  !  he  spake  the  English  tongue. 
And  bore  a  soldier's  name  ; 
And,  when  America  was  free 
From  battle  and  from  jeopardy. 
He  'cross  the  ocean  came. 

With  hues  of  genius  on  his  cheek. 
In  finest  tones  the  youth  could  speak. 
—  While  he  was  yet  a  boy, 
The  moon,  the  glory  of  the  sun. 
And  streams  that  murnmr  as  they  run. 
Had  been  liis  dearest  joy. 

He  was  a  lovely  youth !     I  guess 

The  panther  in  the  wilderness 

Was  not  so  fair  as  he ; 

And,  when  he  chose  to  sport  and  play. 

No  dolphin  ever  was  so  gay 

Upon  the  tropic  sea. 


(>(;  CATH cart's    LITERARY    RJiADER. 

Among  the  Indians  he  had  fought ; 
And  with  him  many  tales  he  brought 
Of  pleasure  and  of  fear  ; 
Such  tides  as,  told  to  any  maid 
By  such  a  youth,  in  the  green  shade. 
Were  perilous  to  hear. 

He  told  of  girls,  a  happy  rout ! 

Who  quit  their  fold  with  dance  and  shout, 

Their  pleasant  Indian  town. 

To  gather  strawberries  all  day  long ; 

Returning  with  a  choral  song 

When  daylight  is  gone  down. 

He  spake  of  plants  divine  and  strange 
That  every  hour  their  blossoms  change. 
Ten  thousand  lovely  hues  ! 
With  budding,  fading,  fadetl  flowers. 
They  stand  the  wonder  of  the  bowers, 
From  mom  to  evening  dews. 

He  told  of  the  magnolia,  spread 
High  as  a  cloud,  high  overhead  ! 
The  cypress  and  her  spire ; 
—  Of  flowers  that  with  one  scarlet  gleam 
Cover  a  hundred  leagues,  and  seem 
To  set  the  hills  on  fire. 

The  youth  of  green  savannas  spake. 
And  many  an  endless,  endless  lake. 
With  all  its  fairy  crowds 
Of  islands,  that  together  lie 
As  quietly  as  spots  of  sky 
Among  the  evening  clouds. 

And  then  he  said,  "  How  sweet  it  were 

A  fisher  or  a  hunter  there, 

A  gardener  in  the  shade, 

Still  wandering  with  an  easy  mind 


WORDSWORTH.  Gl 

To  build  a  household  fin\  an<l  fiiul 
A  home  in  every  glade  ! 

"  What  days  and  what  sweet  years !     Ah  me ! 

Our  life  were  life  indeed,  with  thee 

So  passed  in  quiet  bliss, 

And  all  the  while,"  said  he,  "  to  know 

That  we  were  in  a  world  of  woe. 

On  such  an  earth  as  this ! 

"  Sweet  Ruth  !  and  could  you  go  with  me 

My  helpmate  in  the  woods  to  be. 

Our  shed  at  night  to  rear ; 

Or  run,  my  own  adopted  bride, 

A  sylvan  huntress  at  my  side, 

And  drive  the  flying  deer ! 

"  Beloved  Ruth  —  "     No  more  he  said, 

The  wakeful  Ruth  at  midnight  shed 

A  solitary  tear : 

She  thought  again,  —  and  did  agree  . 

With  him  to  sail  across  the  sea. 

And  drive  the  flying  deer. 

"  And  now,  as  fitting-  is  and  right. 
We  in  the  church  our  faith  will  plight, 
A  husband  and  a  wife." 
Even  so  they  did  ;  and  T  may  say 
That  to  sweet  Ruth  that  happy  day 
Was  more  than  human  life. 


THE  SOLITART  REAPER. 

Behold  her  single  in  the  field, 
Ton  solitary  Highland  Lass ! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain  ; 


i'.i  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

O  listen !  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chant 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bknds 
Of  travelers  in  some  shady  haunt 
Among  Arabian  sands ; 
No  sweeter  voice  was  ever  heard 
In  springtime  from  the  cuckoo-bird. 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ? 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago  : 
Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again. 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending ; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending ; 
I  listened  till  I  had  my  fill ; 
And  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 


SCOTT.  63 

SCOTT. 
1771-1832. 

Si»  Walte«  Scott,  the  mo«t  famons  of  historical  novelists,  was  born  in  Edinburgh  in  1771 
and  died  in  ltiA'2.  He  studied  at  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  read  law,  and  in  \19i  was  called 
to  the  bar.  In  1799  he  was  ap|)ointed  Sheriff,  in  1806  was  made  Clerk  of  the  Court  of  Session, 
and  in  1820,  when  he  was  forty-nine  years  old,  received  a  baronetcy.  His  first  literary  effort 
was  a  translation  of  some  of  Burger's  ballads,  which  was  pabliahed  in  1796-  Other  translations 
followed,  with  three  or  four  original  poems ;  hut  not  untU  1805  did  Scott  attain  the  place  of 
literarr  eminence  which  he  forever  after  held  and  adorned.  His  first  grand  success  was  The 
Lay  of  the  L4ut  Minstrel,  which  appeared  in  that  year,  and  was  received  with  almost  universal 
praise.  Marmion,  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  Rokeby,  and  other  poems,  were  issued  in  quick  suc- 
cession, each  continuing  his  poetical  reputation  and  spreading  his  fame.  But  Scott  is  better 
known  to  the  world  as  a  novelist  than  as  a  poet,  and  a  few  words  descriptive  of  his  remarkable 
career  in  fiction  seem  to  be  necessary  to  the  completeness  of  this  sketch.  In  1814  Waterley 
VM  iwaed  at  Edinburgh,  and  instantly  attracted  attention.  No  author's  name  appeared  on  the 
tiUe-ptge,  and  the  public  was  left  in  a  state  of  painful  doubt  as  to  the  source  of  so  brilliant  a 
book.  Its  perplexity  was  naturally  increased,  the  next  year,  by  the  appearance  of  Guy  Man- 
mtrimg,  and.  at  brief  intervals,  of  its  successors.  Scott  was  suspected  of  the  authorship  of  these 
books,  but  stoutly  denied  it ;  and  not  till  many  years  later  did  he  confess  the  truth.  Space  will 
not  permit  us  to  dwell  upon  the  pecuniary  troubles  which  clouded  the  last  years  of  the  great 
novelist.  In  all  the  history  of  literature  there  is  no  record  of  such  lalwrs  as  his  ;  one  admires 
«(  lofty  sense  of  honor,  bis  unyielding  fortitude,  and  his  almost  superhuman  power  of  applica- 
<n  with  equal  waniith.  The  secret  of  Scott's  success  may  be  said  to  lie  in  his  felicitous  em- 
ployment of  common  topics,  images,  and  expressions,  such  as  all  readers  can  appreciate.  Another 
•onrce  of  his  strength  was  his  intense  nationality  :  no  writer  before  him  had  so  vividly  illustrat- 
ed the  characteristics  of  Scottish  life  and  character.  His  novels  were  and  are  popular  because 
'  .-y  deal  with  real  life,  and  avoid  the  meditative  and  speculative  habits  which  are  wearisome 
<  the  common  reader.  Not  conspicuously  surpassing  all  other  novelists  in  single  qualities, 
Scott  yet  possessed  and  combined  all  the  qualities  necessary  for  his  work  in  such  nice  and 
hannonioos  a4iastmcnt  as  has  never  been  witnessed  in  any  other  man.  While  his  novels  fasci- 
nate and  entertain  with  an  enduring  yet  indescribable  charm,  they  also  convey  much  valuable 
information  as  to  the  life  of  the  times  of  which  they  treat 


THE  TOMB  OF  ROBEBT  BBXJCB  * 

Such  of  the  Scottish  knights  as  remained  alive  returned  to  their 
wn  country.  They  brought  back  the  heart  of  the  Bruce  and  the 
iiones  of  the  good  Lord  James.  These  last  were  interred  in  the 
rhurrh  of  St.  Bride,  where  Thomas  Dickson  and  Douglas  held  so 
terrible  a  Palm  Sunday.  The  Bnice's  heart  was  buried  Mow  the 
high  altar  in  Melrose  Abbey.  As  for  his  body,  it  was  laid  in  the 
sepulcher  in  the  midst  of  the  church  of  Dunfermline,  under  a  marble 

•  Bobert  Bruce,  King  of  Scots,  was  bom  in  15J7*.    He  was  a  man  of  great  valor,  and  waged, 
with  ranring  fortune,  incessant  war  against  the  English.    He  finally  gained  a  derisive  victory 
w>r  the  army  of  Edward  II.  at  the  fiunoos  battle  of  Bannockbnm  in  1314.  which  resulted  in 
he  independcaee  of  Scotland. 


64  CATllCAr  I's    I  1  1  i.i;  \  \:\     i:  i   \iii  i:. 

stone.     But  the  church  becoi  wai  1>  ruinous,  and  the  roof 

faUinfi^  down  with  aire,  the  laouuunnl  was  broken  to  pieces,  and 
nobody  could  tell  when-  it  stood.  But  a  little  while  ago,  when  they 
were  repairing  the  cliunh  at  nuiifcnnlinc.  and  removing  tin-  nil)l)i>li, 
lo  !  tiny  found  fnignients  of  tiic  marble  tomb  of  Robert  Bruce.  Then 
th«y  lK'«,^n  to  dip:  farther,  thinkinjr  to  discover  the  body  of  this  cele- 
brated nioiianli ;  ami  at  length  they  caiiu  to  tlu  skeleton  of  a  tall  man, 
and  they  knew  it  must  l)c  that  of  King  Robert,  l)oth  as  he  was  known 
to  have  been  buried  in  a  winding-sheet  of  cloth  of  gold,  of  which 
many  fragments  were  found  about  this  skelct(.ii.  and  also  because  the 
breastbone  appeared  to  have  been  sawed  through,  in  order  to  take  out 
the  heart.  So  orders  were  sent  from  the  King's  Court  of  Exchequer 
to  guard  the  bones  carefully,  uutil  a  new  tom"b  should  be  prepared, 
into  which  they  were  laid  with  profound  respect.  A  great  many 
gentlemen  and  1  idii  ^  attnidrd.  and  almost  all  the  common  people 
in  the  neigh lx)rhood ;  and  as  the  church  could  not  hold  half  the 
numl>crs.  the  people  were  allowed  to  pass  throujrh  it,  one  after  an- 
otli(  1,  that  each  one,  the  poorest  as  well  as  tin  ri<  Ik  -t.  might  see  all 
tliat  n maincd  of  the  great  King  Robert  Bruce,  who  restored  the 
6iotti>li  nioiianliy.  Many  {X'ople  shed  tears  ;  for  there  was  the 
wasted  skull  which  once  was  the  head  that  thought  so  wisely  and 
boldly  for  his  country's  deliverance  ;  and  there  was  the  dry  bone 
which  had  once  been  the  sturdy  arm  that  killed  Sir  lit  nn  de  Bohun, 
between  the  two  armies,  at  a  single  blow,  on  tin-  i v. ninir  before  the 
battle  of  Bannockbuni.* 

It  is  more  than  five  hundred  years  since  the  body  of  Bruce  was 
first  laid  into  the  tomb ;  and  how  many,  many  millions  of  men  have 
died  since  that  time,  whose  bones  could  not  be  recognized,  nor  their 
names  known,  any  more  than  tliox-  of  iidVrior  animal^:  It  was  a 
great  thini;  to  see  that  the  wi-doui.  courage,  and  palriutisni  of  a 
Kiiii:  could  presen-e  him  tor  such  a  long  time  in  the  memory  of  the 
people  over  whom  he  once  reigned.  But  then,  my  dear  child,  you 
must  remember,  that  it  is  only  desirable  to  be  rememl^red  for  praise- 
worthy and  patriotic  action-,  such  as  those  of  Robert  Bruce.  It 
woidd  be  better  for  a  prince  to  be  forgotten  like  the  meanest  peasant, 
than  to  be  recollected  for  actions  of  tyranny  or  oppression. 

*  See  Burns's  poem,  page  55. 


SCOTT.  65 


LOCHnrVAE.  — LADY  HEBOFS  SONG. 

O,  YorN(i  Ijocliinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 
Tlirouj^h  oil  the  wide  IJonler  his  steed  was  the  best, 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapons  had  none ; 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone. 

He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none ; 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Nether  by  gate. 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late  : 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war. 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  hall, 

Among  bride's-mcn  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers  and  all : 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword 

( For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  spoke  never  a  word), 

"  O,  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war. 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar  ?  " 

"  I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied  ;  — 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide,  — 
And  now  I  am  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine. 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far. 
That  would  gla<lly  Ix;  bride  to  the  young  Jjochinvar." 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ;  the  knight  took  it  up. 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh. 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  Iwir,  — 
'•  Now  tread  we  a  measure  !  "  said  young  lioch invar. 

So  stately  his  fonn,  and  so  lovely  her  face. 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace ; 


66  CATHCARt's    LITEllAKY    READER. 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume. 
And  the  bridejnx)om  stood  dangling  his  lx)nnet  and  plume ; 
And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "  'T  were  better  by  far 
To  Iiave  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochinvar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 

When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and  the  charger  stood  near ; 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 

So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 

*'  She  is  won  !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur; 

They  *U  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,"  quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  *mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby  clan  ; 

Forsters,  Fen  wicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they  ran : 

There  was  racing,  and  chasing,  on  Cannobie  Lee, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 

Have  ye  e*er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar  ? 


THE  LAST  MIKSTBEL. 

The  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold, 
Tlic  Minstrel  was  infirm  and  old ; 
His  withennl  check,  and  tresses  gray, 
Seemed  to  have  known  a  better  day ; 
The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy. 
Was  carried  by  an  orphan  boy  : 
The  last  of  all  the  Bards  was  he. 
Who  sung  of  Border  chivalry ; 
For,  well-a-day  !  their  date  was  fled. 
His  tuneful  brethren  all  were  dead  ; 
And  he,  neglected  and  oppressed. 
Wished  to  be  with  them,  and  at  rest. 
No  more,  on  prancing  palfrey  borne. 
He  caroled,  light  as  lark  at  mom ; 
No  longer,  courted  and  caressed. 
High  placed  in  hall,  a  welcome  guest. 
He  poiu-ed,  to  lord  and  lady  gay. 
The  impremeditated  lay : 


SCOTT. 

Old  times  were  changed,  old  manners  gone  ; 
A  stranger  fills  the  Stuarts'  throne ; 
The  bigots  of  the  iron  time 
Had  called  his  harmless  art  a  crime. 
A  wanderiii}^  harper,  scorned  and  poor, 
He  begged  his  way  from  door  to  door ; 
And  tuned,  to  please  a  peasant's  ear, 
The  harp  a  King  had  loved  to  hear. 

THE  LOVE  OF  COUHTEY. 

Breathes  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead. 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ? 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned, 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well ; 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ! 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim : 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf. 
The  wretch,  concentered  all  in  self. 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown. 
And  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 


67 


Some  feelings  are  to  mortals  given, 

With  less  of  earth  in  them  than  heaven : 

And  if  there  be  a  human  tear 

From  passion's  dross  refined  and  clear, 

A  tear  so  limpid  and  so  meek, 

It  would  not  stain  an  angel's  cheek, 

'T  is  that  which  pious  fathers  shed 

Upon  a  duteous  daughter's  head  ! 


68  cathcart's  litb&ary  reader. 

SYDNEY  SMITH. 

1771-1845. 

Stdnet  Smith's  name  lit  qmonym  of  irit ;  bat  he  has  Irfl  behind  him  eridencetof  &r 
higher  menUl  power*  thHi  tkoM  whieh  are  oaUeil  into  exerctie  in  the  effort  to  amuse.  He  was 
born  at  Woodford,  Essex,  England,  in  1771.  and  died  in  ItHA.  lie  was  educau-d  at  Oxford,  took 
holy  orders  and  held  a  curacy  in  Wiltshire ;  in  17tM  he  removed  to  Edinburgh,  where,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  Brougham  and  other  iitt'ng^*^'**'  men,  he  feanded  the  BUmkurgh  Rerinc.  Benio\ing 
to  London  in  1804,  he  oontmned  to  write  for  the  Review,  and  speedily  won  a  brilliant  reputation 
as  a  critic  Efrlfiiat^iftil  preferment  frequently  came  to  him,  and  at  the  time  of  his  death  he 
was  Canon  BMideatiuy  of  St  Paul's  Cathedral  His  writings  were  mainly  in  the  form  of  ser- 
mons :  but  he  wrote  many  notable  letters  oa  pditkal  and  reUgioos  questions  which  go  far  to- 
ward justifying  Mr.  Everett's  opinion  that  if  he  (Smith)  "  had  not  been  known  as  the  wittiest 
xnmk  of  his  day,  he  would  hare  been  accounted  one  of  the  wisest"  It  is  believed  that  his  Let- 
ters on  CatboUc  Emancipation  were  largely  instrumental  in  pushing  that  measure  to  success. 
Macaulay  said  of  him :  "  He  is  unirersally  admitted  to  hare  been  a  great  reasoner,  and  the 
greatest  master  of  ridicule  that  has  appeared  among  us  since  Swift" 

THE  PLEASURES   OF   KNOWLEDGE. 

It  is  noble  to  seek  Truth,  and  it  is  beautiful  to  find  it.  It  is  the 
ancient  feeling  of  the  human  heart,  that  knowledge  is  better  than 
riches ;  and  it  is  deeply  and  sacredljf  true.  To  mark  the  course  of 
human  passions  as  they  have  flowed  on  in  the  ages  that  are  past ;  to 
see  why  nations  have  risen,  and  why  they  have  fallen ;  to  speak  of 
heat,  and  light,  and  the  winds ;  to  know  what  man  has  discovered  in 
the  heavens  above  and  in  the  earth  beneath ;  to  hear  the  chemist 
unfold  the  marvelous  properties  that  the  Creator  has  locked  up  in  a 
speck  of  earth ;  to  be  told  that  there  are  worlds  so  distant  from  our 
own,  that  the  quickness  of  light,  traveling  from  the  world's  creation, 
has  never  yet  reached  us ;  to  wander  in  the  creations  of  poetry,  and 
grow  warm  again  with  that  eloquence  which  swayed  the  democracies 
of  the  Old  World ;  to  go  up  with  great  reasoners  to  the  First  Cause 
of  all,  and  to  perceive,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  dissolution  and  decay 
and  cruel  separation,  that  there  is  one  thing  unchangeable,  indestruc- 
tible, and  everlasting ;  —  it  is  worth  while  in  the  days  of  our  youth 
to  strive  hard  for  this  great  discipline ;  to  pass  sleepless  nights  for 
it ;  to  give  up  for  it  laboriotis  days ;  to  spurn  for  it  present  pleasures ; 
to  endure  for  it  afflicting  poverty ;  to  wade  for  it  througli  darkness, 
and  sorrow,  and  contempt,  as  the  great  spirits  of  the  world  have  done 
in  all  ages  and  all  times. 

I  appeal  to  the  experience  of  any  man  who  is  in  the  habit  of  exer- 


SYDNEY    SMITH.  69 

cising  his  mind  vigorously  and  well,  whether  there  is  not  a  satisfac- 
tion in  it  which  tells  him  he  has  been  actiiij^  up  to  one  of  the  ji^reat 
objects  of  his  existence  ?  The  end  of  nature  has  been  answered  :  his 
faculties  have  done  that  which  they  were  cn^attxi  to  do,  —  not  lan- 
g:uidly  occupied  upon  trifles,  not  enervated  by  sensual  gratification, 
but  exercised  in  tliat  toil  which  is  so  congenial  to  their  nature,  and 
so  worthy  of  their  strength. 

A  life  of  knowledge  is  not  often  a  life  of  injury  and  crime.  Whom 
does  such  a  man  oppress?  with  whose  happiness  does  he  interfere? 
whom  does  his  ambition  destroy?  and  whom  does  his  fraud  deceive? 
In  the  pursuit  of  science  he  injures  no  man,  and  in  the  acquisition 
he  does  good  to  all.  A  man  who  dedicates  his  life  to  knowledge, 
becomes  habituated  to  pleasure  which  carries  with  it  no  reproach  : 
and  there  is  one  security  tliat  he  will  never  love  that  pleasure  which 
is  paid  for  by  anguish  of  heart,  —  his  pleasures  are  all  cheap,  all  dig- 
nified, and  all  innocent ;  and,  as  far  as  any  human  l)eing  can  expect 
pennani'iice  in  this  changing  scene,  he  has  secured  a  happiness  which 
no  malignity  of  fortune  can  ever  take  away,  but  which  must  cleave  to 
him  while  he  lives,  ameliorating  every  good,  and  diminishing  every 
evil  of  his  existence. 

I  solennily  declare,  that,  but  for  the  love  of  knowledge,  I  should 
consider  the  life  of  the  meanest  hedger  and  ditcher  preferable  to  that 
of  the  greatest  and  richest  man  in  existence ;  for  the  fire  of  our  minds 
is  like  the  fire  which  the  Persians  burn  on  the  mountains,  —  it  flames 
night  and  day,  and  is  immortal,  and  not  to  be  quenched  !  Upon 
something  it  must  act  and  fee?d,  —  upon  the  pure  spirit  of  knowledge, 
or  upon  the  foul  dregs  of  pollnting  passions. 

Therefore,  when  I  say,  in  conducting  your  understanding,  love 
knowledge  with  a  great  love,  with  a  vehement  love,  with  a  love  co- 
eval with  life,  what  do  I  say  but  love  innocence ;  love  virtue ;  love 
purity  of  conduct ;  love  that  which,  if  you  are  rich  and  great,  will 
8.irirtify  the  providence  which  has  made  you  so,  and  make  men  call  it 
justice  ;  love  that  which,  if  you  are  poor,  will  render  your  poverty 
nsjM'ctable,  and  make  the  proudest  feel  it  unjust  to  laugh  at  the  metui- 
ness  of  your  fortunes ;  love  that  which  will  comfort  you,  adorn  you, 
and  never  quit  you,  • —  which  will  open  to  you  the  kingdom  of  thought, 
ami  all  the  lK)undless  n^ions  of  conception,  as  an  asylum  against  the 
cnuUy,  tiu;  injustici*,  and  the  pain  that  may  be  your  lot  in  the  outer 
world,  —  that  which  will  make  your  motives  habitually  great  and  bon- 


70  cathcart's  literary  rkadi  I:. 

oral)li'.  and  lii^lit  up  in  an  instant  a  tliousaiul  noble  disdains  at  the 
very  thou^^ht  of  im  aniu-^s  and  of  fraud? 

Therefore,  if  any  young  man  have  eml)arked  his  life  in  the  pursuit 
of  knowled^n-,  let  him  go  on  without  (iouluiiiL''  nr  t"r;:riii--  ilir  cvrni  : 
let  liiin  not  Ik*  intimi(hite(l  bv  the  cheerhss  beginnings  of  knowledge, 
by  iIh;  darkness  from  whieh  she  sprincrs,  by  the  difficulties  which 
hover  around  her,  by  the  wnt  i-  in  wliich  sIk    dwdls, 

by  the  want  and  sorrow  whi  oh  -  n,  ,i,im-  iwuiiicy  in  her  train;  but 
let  liiin  rv.r  foilou  hrr  as  tin-  AnLTcl  that  guards  him,  and  cs  the 
Genius  (,t  his  life.  She  will  bring  him  out  at  last  into  the  light  of 
day,  and  txlilbit  Mm  to  the  world  coiiiDr.  IwikIvc  In  Mfdiiln  luonts, 
Irrtih-   i  ill  in   imaLrni.r  iident 

and  powcrlui  above  his  fellows  in  all  lin  k  lations  and  m  all  the 
offices  of  life. 

WIT  AKD  WISDOM. 

Till  i:i  is  an  association  in  mms  minds  between  didlncss  and  wis- 
dom, amu-(  nit  lit  and  folly,  which  has  a  very  powerfid  influence  in 
decision  upon  cliaraHer,  and  is    not  overromr  without    considerable 

difficulty.  Ttic  reason  is.  that  the  ontirard  ^iirii^  <)t'  a  dull  man  and  a 
wise  man  an-  tin-  same,  and  so  are  the  on! u aid  -iiun^  ot"  a  frivolous 
man  ami  a  uiity  man  :  and  we  are  not  to  t-xprct  that  the  majority 
will  be  di-jxisfd  to  look  to  much  hiur*'  than  the  oiitwafd  sign.  I 
beli(;ve  the  fact  to  be,  that  wit  is  very  seldom  the  only  eminent  quality 
which  resides  in  the  mind  of  any  man  ;  it  is  commonly  accompanied 
by  many  otl  -  of  every  (ltscri])tion.  and  ouLrht   to  be  consid- 

ered as  a  strong  evidence  of  a  fertile  and  superior  understanding. 
Almost  all  the  great  poets,  orators,  and  statesmen  of  all  times  have 
been  witiy. 

The  mcaniuir  of  an  extraordinary  man  is.  that  he  is  eight  men,  not 
one  man  ;  that  lu'  has  as  mueh  wit  as  if  he  had  no  sense,  and  as  much 
sense  a?  if  he  had  no  wit ;  that  his  conduct  is  as  judicious  as  if  he 
were  the  dullest  of  human  beinsrs,  and  his  imasrination  as  brilliant 
as  if  lie  were  irretrievably  ruined.  ])Ut  when  wit  is  combined  with 
sense  and  information ;  when  it  is  sot^eiied  by  benevolence,  and 
restrained  by  strong  principle  ;  wlien  it  is  in  the  hands  of  a  man 
who  can  use  it  and  despise  it,  who  can  be  witty,  and  somethimr  much 
better  tliau  witty,  who  loves  honor,  justiee.  decency,  good-nature, 
moralitv,  and  religion,  ten  thousand  times  b,tTer  than  wit; — wit  is 


SYDNEY    SMITH.  71 

then  a  beautiful  and  delightful  part  of  our  nature.  There  is  no  more 
interesting  spectacle  than  to  see  the  effects  of  wit  upon  the  different 
1  liaracters  of  men ;  than  to  observe  it  expanding  caution,  relaxing 
ilii^nity,  unfreezing  coldness,  —  teaching  age  and  care  and  pain  to 
-mile,  —  extorting  reluctant  gleams  of  pleasure  from  melancholy,  and 
t  Imrming  even  the  pangs  of  grief.  It  is  pleasant  to  observe  how  it 
penetrates  through  the  coldness  and  awkwardness  of  society,  gradu- 
ally bringing  men  nearer  together,  and,  like  the  combined  force  of 
wine  and  oil,  giving  evciy  man  a  glad  heart  and  a  shining  counte- 
Genuine  and  innocent  wit  like  this  is  surely  iXxa  Jlavor  of  the 

: .'     Man  could  direct  his  ways  by  plain  reason,  and  support  his 

life  by  tasteless  food;  but  God  has  given  us  wit,  and  flavor,  and 
laughter,  and  perfumes,  to  enliven  the  days  of  man's  pilgrimage,  and 
to  "  chann  his  painful  steps  over  the  burning  marie." 

8CIEKCE  OF  GOVEENMENT. 

It  would  seem  that  the  science  of  government  is  an  unappropriated 
region  in  the  universe  of  knowledge.  Those  sciences  with  which  the 
passions  can  never  interfere  are  considered  to  be  attainable  only  by 
>tudy  and  by  reflection ;  while  there  are  not  many  young  men  who 

loubt  of  their  ability  to  make  a  constitution,  or  to  govern  a  kingdom, 
it  the  same  time  there  cannot,  perhaps,  be  a  more  decided  proof  of  a 
Miperticial  understanding  than  the  depreciation  of  those  diffieulties 
which  are  insepjirable  from  the  science  of  govenmient.  To  know  well 
the  local  and  the  natural  man ;  to  track  the  silent  march  of  human 

tfairs;  to  seize,  with  happy  intuition,  on  those  great  laws  which 
I.  [Tiilate  the  prosperity  of  empires;  to  reconcile  principles  to  circum- 
-t  IK  ts,  and  be  no  wiser  than  the  times  mil  permit ;  to  anticipate  the 
-  of  ever)'  speculation  upon  the  entangled  relations  and  awkwanl 
:ii('xity  of  real  life;  and  to  follow  out  the  theorems  of  the  senate 
to  the  daily  comforts  of  the  cottage,  is  a  task  which  they  will  fear 
most  who  know  it  best,  —  a  task  in  which  the  great  and  the  good 
have  often  failed,  and  which  it  is  not  only  wise,  but  pious  and  just,  in 
common  men  to  avoid. 


I 


72  CATHCART*8    LITERARY    READER. 

COLEEIDGE. 
1772- 1834. 

Samdki.  Tatu>b  CoutmiDGK  wu  born  at  Ottery  8t  Maiy,  Denmshire,  where  his  Father  was 
vicar,  in  177>»  and  died  in  1S34.  He  tpeot  tvo  yean  at  Jesaa  Collcfe,  Cambridge,  but  did 
not  complete  his  ooone.  A  little  later,  being  in  London  without  resources  or  eniploYmcnt,  he 
enllsteid  in  a  dnfooB  reftment.  One  day  he  wrote  a  Latin  rerae  on  the  stable-wall,  which  fact 
eoning  to  the  knowledge  of  his  captain,  the  latter  procured  his  discharge  from  the  serrice. 
Coleridge  at  once  entered  on  a  literary  and  political  career,  publishing  his  first  work,  Tlu  Fall  of 
Moht^turrt,  Jm  HiHtrieml  Dntma^  in  1794,  and  soon  after  several  pamphlets  in  which  he  ad\-o- 
cited  dfmociatte  aad  UnitnmB  doctrinca.  With  Soatiiey  and  Lovell  he  projected  a  Paatiaoe- 
racy  to  be  eatablished  in  Pennsylvania,  but  the  scheme  eame  to  naught,  and  Coleridge  settled 
down  as  a  writer  on  the  Mormug  Pott,  in  support  of  the  government  In  1798  he  visited 
Germany  and  studied  then  diligently.  In  1SI2  his  series  of  Essays,  called  TV  Friatd,  was  pub- 
lished, and  in  1816  CkrisUM.  He  had  acquired  the  habit  of  opium-eating,  which  obtained  the 
BMateryorer  him  and  reduced  him  to  a  condition  of  unprodurtivr  indolmre.  He  passed  the 
last  eighteen  years  of  his  life  in  retirement.  So  able  a  judge  as  I)e  Quineey  has  said  that  Cole- 
ridge's was  "  the  Urgest  and  most  spacious  intellect,  the  subtlest  and  most  comprehensive,  that 
has  yet  existed  among  men."  He  excelled  in  every  department  of  literature,  and  several  of 
his  poems  rank  among  the  finest  in  otu  language.  As  a  coiiTenationist  he  has  never  been 
equaled. 

THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  METHOD. 

What  is  that  which  first  strikes  us,  and  strikes  -us  at  once,  in  a 
man  of  education,  and  which,  ainon<?  educated  men,  so  instantly  dis- 
tinguishes the  man  of  superior  mind,  tliat  (as  was  observed  with  emi- 
nent propriety  of  tlie  late  Edmund  Burke)  '*  we  cannot  stand  under 
the  same  archway  durino:  a  shower  of  rain,  without  finding  him  out"? 
Not  the  weight  or  noveUy  of  his  remarks  ;  not  any  unusual  interest 
of  facts  communicated  by  him  :  for  we  may  suppose  both  the  one  and 
the  other  precluded  by  the  shortness  of  our  intercourse,  and  the  trivi- 
ality  of  the  subjects.  The  difference  will  \)e  impressed  and  felt, 
though  the  conversation  should  be  confined  to  the  state  of  the  weather 
or  the  p{ivement.  Still  less  will  it  arise  from  any  peculiarity  in  his 
words  and  phrases.  Unless  where  new  things  necessitate  new  terms, 
he  will  avoid  an  unusual  word  as  a  rock.  It  must  have  been  among 
the  earliest  lessons  of  his  youth,  that  the  breach  of  this  precept,  at  all 
times  hazardous,  becomes  ridiculous  in  the  topics  of  ordinary  conver- 
sation. There  remains  but  one  other  point  of  distinction  possible; 
and  this  must  be,  and  in  fact  is,  the  true  cause  of  the  impression  made 
on  us.  It  is  the  unpremeditated  and  evidently  habitual  arrangement 
of  his  words,  grounded  on  the  habit  of  foreseeing,  in  each  integral 
part,  or  (more  plainly)  in  every  sentence,  the  whole  that  he  then  in- 


COLERIDGE.  7 '3 

tends  to  communicate.     However  irregular  and  desultory  his  talk, 
there  is  method  in  the  fragments. 

Listen,  on  the  other  hand,  to  an  ignorant  man,  though  perhaps 
shrewd  and  able  in  his  particular  calling,  whether  he  be  describing 
or  relating.  We  immediately  perceive,  that  his  memory  alone  is 
called  into  action ;  and  that  the  objects  and  events  recur  in  the  nar- 
ration in  the  same  order,  and  with  the  same  accompaniments,  however 
accidental  or  impertinent,  in  which  they  had  first  occurred  to  the 
narrator.  The  necessity  of  taking  breath,  the  efforts  of  recollection, 
and  the  abrupt  rectification  of  its  failures,  produce  all  his  jmuses ; 
and  with  exception  of  the  "  and  then,"  the  "  and  there,"  and  the 
still  less  significant,  "and  so,"  they  constitute  likewise  all  his  con- 
nections. 

Our  discussion,  however,  is  confined  to  method  as  employed  in  the 
formation  of  the  understanding,  and  in  the  constructions  of  science 
and  literature.  It  would  indeed  be  superfluous  to  attempt  a  proof  of 
its  importiince  in  the  business  and  economy  of  active  or  domestic 
life.  From  the  cotter's  hearth  or  the  workshop  of  the  artisan  to  the 
palace  or  the  arsenal,  the  first  merit,  that  which  admits  neither  sub- 
stitute nor  equivalent,  is,  that  everything  be  in  its  place.  Where  this 
charm  is  wanting,  every  other  merit  either  loses  its  name,  or  becomes 
an  additional  ground  of  accusation  and  regret.  Of  one,  by  whom  it 
is  eminently  possessed,  we  say  proverbially,  he  is  like  clock-work. 
The  resemblance  extends  beyond  the  point  of  regularity,  and  yet  falls 
short  of  the  truth.  Both  do,  indeed,  at  once  divide  and  announce 
the  silent  and  otherwise  indistinguishable  lapse  of  time.  But  the 
man  of  methodical  industry  and  honorable  pursuits  does  more;  he 
realizes  its  ideal  divisions,  and  gives  a  character  and  individuality  to 
its  moments.  If  the  idle  are  described  as  killing  time,  he  may  be 
justly  said  to  call  it  into  life  and  moral  being,  whiles  he  makes  it  the 
distinct  object  not  only  of  the  consciousness,  but  of  the  conscience.  He 
organizes  the  hours,  and  gives  them  a  soul ;  and  that,  the  very  essence 
of  whicli  is  to  fleet  away,  and  evermore  to  have  been,  he  takes  up  into 
his  own  permanence,  and  communicates  to  it  the  imperishaWeness  of 
a  spiritual  nature.  Of  the  good  and  faithful  terra nt,  whose  energies, 
thus  directetl,  are  thus  methodized,  it  is  less  truly  affirmed,  that  he 
lives  in  time,  than  that  time  lives  in  him.  His  days,  months,  and 
years,  as  the  stops  and  punctual  marks  in  the  reconls  of  duties  |)er- 
formed,  will  survive  the  wreck  of  worlds,  and  remain  extant  when 
time  itself  shall  be  no  more. 
4 


74  cathcart's  literaey  reader. 

But  as  the  importance  of  method  in  the  duties  of  social  life  is 
incomparably  greater,  so  are  its  practical  elements  proportionably 
obvious,  and  such  as  relate  to  the  will  far  more  than  to  the  under- 
standing. Henceforward,  therefore,  we  contemplate  its  bearings  on 
the  latter. 

The  difference  between  the  products  of  a  well-disciplined  and 
those  of  an  uncultivated  understanding,  in  relation  to  what  we  will 
now  venture  to  call  the  science  of  method,  is  often  and  admirably 
exhibited  by  our  great  dramatist.  I  scarcely  need  refer  my  readers 
to  the  Clown's  evidence,  in  the  first  scene  of  the  second  act  of 
Measure  for  Metmure,  or  to  the  Nurse  in  Romeo  and  Juliet ' 

The  absence  of  method,  which  characterizes  the  uneducated,  is 
occasioned  by  an  habitual  submission  of  the  understanding  to  mere 
events  and  images  as  such,  and  independent  of  any  power  in  the 
mind  to  classify  or  appropriate  them.  The  general  accompaniments 
of  time  and  place  are  the  only  relations  which  persons  of  this  class 
appear  to  regard  in  their  statements.  As  this  constitutes  their  lead- 
ing feature,  the  contrary  excellence,  as  disting\iishing  the  well-edu- 
cated man,  must  be  referred  to  the  contrary  habit.  Method,  there- 
fore, becomes  natural  to  the  mind  which  has  been  accustomed  to 
contemplate  not  things  only,  or  for  their  own  sake  alone,  but  like- 
wise and.  chiefly  the  relations  of  things,  either  their  relations  to  each 
other,  or  to  the  observer,  or  to  the  state  and  apprehensions  of  the 
hearers.  To  enumerate  and  analyze  these  relations,  with  the  condi- 
tions under  which  alone  they  are  discoverable,  is  to  teach  the  science 
of  method 

Exuberance  of  mind,  on  the  one  liaiul,  interferes  with  the  forms  of 
method  ;  but  sterility  of  mind,  on  the  other,  wanting  the  spring  and 
impulse  to  mental  action,  is  wholly  destructive  of  method  itself.  For 
in  attending  too  exclusively  to  the  relations  which  the  past  or  pass- 
ing events  and  objects  bear  to  general  truth,  and  the  moods  of  his 
own  thought,  the  most  intelligent  man  is  sometimes  in  danger  of 
overlooking  that  other  relation,  in  which  they  are  likewise  to  be 
placed  to  the  apprehension  and  sympathies  of  his  hearers.  His 
discourse  appears  like  soliloquy  intermixed  with  dialogue.  But  the 
uneducated  and  unreflecting  talker  overlooks  all  mental  relations, 
both  logical  and  psychological ;  and  consequently  precludes  all 
method  which  is  not  purely  accidental.  Hence  the  nearer  the  things 
and  incidents  in  time  and  place,  the  more  distant,  disjointed,  and 


COLERIDGE.  76 

impertinent  to  each  other,  and  to  any  common  purpose,  will  they 
appear  in  his  narration  ;  and  this  from  the  want  of  a  staple,  or 
stiirting-post,  in  the  narrator  himself;  from  the  absence  of  the  lewling 
thouo^ht,  which,  borrowins:  a  phrase  from  the  nomenclature  of  legisla- 
tion, I  may  not  inaptly  call  the  initiative.  On  the  contrary,  where 
the  habit  of  method  is  present  and  effective,  things  the  most  remote 
and  diverse  in  time,  place,  and  outward  circumstance  are  brought  into 
mental  contiguity  and  succession,  the  more  striking  as  the  less  ex- 
pected. 

^  KUBLA  KHAS ;  OB,  A  VISION  IN  A  DREAIL* 
A   FRAGMENT. 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree : 

Where  Alph,  the  sticred  river,  ran 

Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round : 
And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree ; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills. 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 
But  oh  !  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover ! 

*  (  olrridge  makes  the  folloiring  reference  to  this  poem  -.  "  In  consequence  of  a  slight  indispo* 
»i(i<>n  nn  snodyne  had  be«n  presrril>ed  for  the  aathor,  from  the  effect  of  which  he  fell  asleep  in 
111*  rhairat  thp  moment  he  was  readinf;  the  following  sentence,  or  words  of  the  same  substance, 

,f,  I.  ^  i-.-.  Ill ,,^^.  .  jIp^  jj,p  Khan  Kahia  commanded  a  palace  to  be  built,  and  astately 

111  thus  ten  miles  of  fertile  ground  were  inclosed  with  a  wall.'    The  author 

<  tiree  hours  in  a  profound  sleep,  at  least  of  the  external  senses,  during  which 

tiiiu  lie  tia»  the  Hiust  ririd  confidence  that  he  could  not  hare  composed  less  than  from  two  to 

t)in-r  liundrrd  lines;  if  that  indeed  can  be  called  composition  in  which  all  the  imagrs  rose  up 

'    ^  ■'       -   with  a  parallel  pnxluction  of  the  correspondent  expressions,  without  any 

-ness  of  effort.    On  awaking  he  appeared    to   himself  to  have  a  distinct 

'       •■•'  liole,  and  taking  his  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  instantly  and  eagerly  wrote  down 

the  Uum  tliat  arr  hnre  preserved.     At  this  moment  he  was  unfortunately  called  out  and  detained 

aliovf  an  hour,  and  on  his  return  to  his  room,  found,  to  his  no  small  surprise  and  mortification. 

**    '    '  "    'taiaedwMie  Tague  and  dim  recollection  of  the  general  purport  of  the  vision, 

')n  of  MfMtifbt  or  ten  Bcattere<i  lines  and  images,  all  the  rest  had  passed 

-<  on  tlie  mxhat  at  a  stream  into  which  a  stone  had  been  cast,  but.  alaa  I 

n  at  the  latter."    The  fragment  is  generally  ranked  among  the 

aiaginattve  poetry  in  our  langnage. 


76  CATHCART^S    LITEUAUY    READER. 

A  savage  place !  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  IxMieath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover ! 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced ; 

Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail  : 

And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river.  * 

Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 

Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man. 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean ; 

And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 

Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war ! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice ! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw  : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played. 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song. 

To  such  a  deep  delight  't  would  win  me. 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
Tliat  sunny  dome  !  those  caves  of  ice  ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there. 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware  !  Beware  ! 

His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair ! 

Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice. 


COLERIDGE.  77 

And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey -dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

DEAD  CALM  IN  THE  TBOFICS. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free ; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 
*T  was  sad  as  sad  could  be  ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea ! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky. 
The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon, 
Bight  up  above  the  mast  did  stand. 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion  ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,  water,  everywhere, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink ; 
Water,  water,  everywhere, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot :  O  Christ  I 
That  ever  this  should  be ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 


78  cathcart's  literary  reader. 


SEVERED  FBIEKDSHIF. 


Alas  !  they  had  Ix'cn  friends  in  youth; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth ; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above ; 
And  life  is  thorny  ;  and  youth  is  vain  ; 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine, 
With  Roland  and  Sir  Ijeoline. 
Each  spake  words  of  high  disdain 
And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother : 
They  parted  —  ne*er  to  meet  again ! 
But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining,  — 
They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 
Like  cliflfs  which  had  been  rent  asunder : 
A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between ;  — 
But  neither  heat  nor  frost  nor  thunder 
Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween, 
The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 


Flowers  are  lovely  ;  love  is  flower-like ; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree  ; 
O,  the  joys  that  came  down  shower-like 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 

Ere  I  was  old ! 
Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  the  morning. 
But  the  tears  are  of  mournful  eve  ! 
Where  no  hope  is,  life 's  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve. 

When  we  are  old  : 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking  leave. 
Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest. 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismissed, 
Yet  hath  outstayed  his  welcome  while. 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 


LAMB.  79 

LAMB. 

1775-1835- 

Craujcs  Laxb,  the  moct  dunning  essayist  and  humorist  of  his  time,  was  bom  in  London, 
1775,  and  died  1835.  His  litej;ary  fame  may  be  said  to  rest  upon  E*say»  of  Elia.  Tlic  delicate 
(Trace  and  flavor  of  these  papers  cannot  be  described.  His  style  has  a  peculiar  and  subtle  charm 
which  eomes  from  perfect  ease  and  self-possession,  and  his  humor  is  of  tlie  ripest  and  richest 
kmd.  In  all  his  writings  he  is  a  perfect  master  in  delicacy  of  feeling  and  liappiness  of  expres- 
sion. No  other  writer,  save  perhaps  Goldsmith,  enters  so  closely  into  his  rcAders'  hearts,  and 
so  warms  them  with  his  genial  personality.  To  all  wha  know  him  in  his  writings  he  is  the  dear 
friend,  whose  voice  we  seem  to  hear  and  whose  smile  we  seem  to  see.  A  terrible  tragedy  shad- 
uw-ed  his  life  ;  but  through  its  gloom  the  tender  loyalty  of  his  nature  shines  out  with  beautiful 
radiance. 

THE  OBIOIK  OF  BOAST-FIG. 

Mankind,  says  a  Chinese  manuscript,  which  my  friend  was  obliging 
enough  to  read  and  explain  to  me,  for  the  first  seventy  thousand  ages 
ate  their  meat  raw,  clawing  or  biting  it  from  the  living  animal,  just  as 
they  do  in  Abyssinia  to  this  day.  This  period  is  not  obscurely  hinted 
at  by  their  great  Confucius  in  the  second  chapter  of  his  Mundane  Mu- 
tations, where  he  designates  a  kind  of  golden  age  by  the  term  Cho- 
fang,  literally  the  Cooks'  Holiday.  The  manuscript  goes  on  to  say, 
that  the  art  of  roasting,  or  rather  broiling  (which  I  take  to  be  the 
elder  brother),  was  accidentally  discovered  in  the  manner  following, 
rhe  swineherd  Ho-ti,  having  gone  out  into  the  woods  one  morning, 
us  his  manner  was,  to  collect  mast  for  his  hogs,  left  his  cottage  in  the 
care  of  his  eldest  son.  Bo-bo,  a  great  lubberly  boy,  who  being  fond 
of  playing  with  fire,  as  youngsters  of  his  age  commonly  are,  let  some 
> parks  escape  into  a  bundle  of  straw,  which,  kindling  quickly,  spread 
the  conflagration  over  every  part  of  their  poor  mansion,  till  it  was 
reduced  to  ashes.  Together  with  the  cottage  (a  sorry  antediluvian 
make-shift  of  a  building,  you  may  think  it),  what  was  of  much  more 
importance,  a  fine  litter  of  new-farrowed  pigs,  no  less  than  nine  in 
number,  perished.  China  pigs  have  been  esteemed  a  luxury  all  over 
the  East,  from  the  remotest  periods  that  we  read  of.  Bo-bo  was  in 
tlie  utmost  consternation,  as  you  may  think,  not  so  much  for  the  sake 
')f  the  tenement,  which  his  father  and  he  could  easily  build  up  again 
with  a  few  dry  branches,  and  the  kbor  of  an  hour  or  two,  at  any 
lime,  as  for  the  loss  of  the  pigs.  While  he  was  thinking  what  he 
should  say  to  his  father,  and  wringing  his  hands  over  the  smoking 


"50  CATllCAliX'S    LITERARY    READER. 

remnants  of  one  of  those  untimely  sufferers,  an  odor  assailed  his  nos- 
trils, unlike  any  scent  which  he  had  before  experienced.  What  could 
it  proceed  from  ?  —  not  from  the  burnt  cottiige,  —  he  had  smelt  that 
smell  Iwfore,  —  inde(xl,  this  was  by  no  nu'ans  the  first  accident  of  tin 
kind  which  had  occurred  through  the  ne«jligence  of  this  uiducky  young 
firebrand.  Much  less  did  it  resemble  that  of  any  known  herb,  weed, 
or  flower.  A  premonitory  moistening  at  the  same  time  overflowed 
his  nether  lip.  He  knew  not  what  to  think.  He  next  stooped  down 
to  feel  the  pig,  if  there  were  any  signs  of  life  in  it.  He  burnt  his 
fingers,  and  to  cool  them  he  applied  them  in  his  booby  fashion  to  his 
mouth.  Some  of  the  cnimbs  of  the  scorched  skin  had  come  away 
with  his  fingers,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  (in  the  world's  life, 
indeed,  for  before  him  no  man  had  known  it)  he  tasted  —  crackling  I 
Again  he  felt  and  fumbled  at  the  pig.  It  did  not  burn  him  so  nmch 
now,  still  he  licked  his  fingers  from  a  sort  of  habit.  The  truth  at 
length  broke  into  his  slow  understanding  tliat  it  was  the  pig  that 
smelt  so,  and  the  pig  that  tasted  so  delicious ;  and  surrendering  him- 
self up  to  the  new-lK)rn  pleasure,  he  fell  to  tearing  up  whole  handfuls 
of  the  scorched  skin  with  the  flesh  next  it,  and  was  cramming  it  do^vn 
his  throat  in  his  beastly  fashion,  when  his  sire  entered  amid  the  smok- 
ing rafters,  armed  with  rctributory  cudgel,  and  finding  how  aflairs 
stood,  began  to  rain  blows  upon  the  young  rogue's  shoulders,  as 
thick  as  hail-stones,  which  Bo-bo  heeded  not  any  more  than  if  tli 
had  been  flies.  The  tickling  pleasure,  which  he  experienced  in  lu^ 
lower  regions,  had  rendered  him  quite  callous  to  any  inconveniences 
he  might  feel  in  those  remote  quarters.  His  father  might  lay  on,  but 
he  could  not  beat  him  from  his  pig,  till  he  had  fairly  made  an  end  of 
it,  when,  becoming  a  little  more  sensible  of  his  situation,  something 
like  the  following  dialogue  ensued  :  — 

"  You  graceless  whelp,  what  have  you  got  there  devouring  ?  Is 
it  not  enough  that  you  have  burnt  me  down  three  houses  with  your 
dog's  tricks,  and  be  hanged  to  you !  but  you  must  be  eating  fire,  and 
I  know  not  w^hat  ?     What  have  you  got  there,  I  say  ?  " 

"  O  father,  the  pig,  the  pig !  do  come  and  taste  how  nice  the  burnt 
pig  eats." 

The  ears  of  Ho-ti  tingled  with  horror.  He  cursed  his  son,  and  he 
cursed  himself  that  ever  he  should  beget  a  son  that  should  eat  burnt 

pig- 

Bo-bo,  whose  scent  was  wonderfully  sharpened  since  morning,  soon 


h 


LAMB.  81 

rakwl  out  another  pig,  and  fairly  rending  it  asunder,  thrust  the  lesser 
half  by  main  force  into  the  fists  of  Ho-ti,  still  shouting  out,  "  Eat,  eat, 
(jit  the  burnt  pig,  father,  only  taste — O  Lord!"  —  with  such-like 
barbarous  ejaculations,  craujining  all  the  while  as  if  he  would  choke. 

Ho-ti  trembled  in  every  joint  while  he  grasped  the  abominable  thing, 
wavering  whether  he  should  not  put  his  son  to  detith  for  an  unnatund 
monster,  when  the  crackling  scorching  his  fingers,  as  it  had  done  his 
son's,  and  applying  the  same  remedy  to  them,  he  in  his  turn  tasted 
some  of  its  flavor,  which,  make  what  sour  mouths  he  would  for 
pretence,  proved  not  altogether  displeasing  to  him.  In  conclusion 
(for  the  manuscript  here  is  a  little  tedious),  l)oth  father  and  son  fairly 
sat  down  to  the  mess,  and  never  left  off  till  they  had  despatched  all 
that  remained  of  the  litter. 

Bo-bo  was  strictly  enjoined  not  to  let  the  secret  escape,  for  the 
neighlwrs  would  certaiidy  have  stoned  them  for  a  couple  of  abomi- 
nable wretches,  who  could  think  of  improving  upon  the  good  meat 
which  God  had  sent  them.  Nevertheless,  strange  stories  got  about. 
It  was  observed  that  Ho-ti's  cottage  was  burnt  down  more  frequently 
than  eyer.  Nothing  but  fires  from  this  time  forward.  Some  would 
break  out  in  broad  day,  others  in  the  night-time.  As  often  as  the 
sow  farrowed,  so  sure  was  the  house  of  Ho-ti  to  he  in  a  blaze ;  and 
Ho-ti  himself,  which  was  more  remarkable,  instead  of  chastising  his 
son,  seemed  to  grow  more  indulgent  to  him  than  ever.  At  length 
they  were  watched,  the  terrible  mystery  discovered,  and  father  and 
son  summoned  to  take  their  trial  at  Pekin,  then  an  inconsiderable  assize 
town.  Evidence  was  given,  the  obnoxious  food  itself  produced  in 
court,  and  verdict  al)out  to  Ik;  pronounced,  when  the  foreman  of  the 
jury  begged  that  some  of  the  burnt  pig,  of  which  the  culprits  stood 
accused,  might  l)e  handed  into  the  box.  He  handled  it,  and  they  all 
handlexl  it;  and  burning  their  fingers,  as  Bo-bo  and  his  father  had 
done  l)efore  them,  and  nature  prompting  to  each  of  them  the  same 
remedy,  against  the  face  of  all  the  facts,  and  the  clearest  charge  which 
judge  had  ever  given,  —  to  the  surprise  of  the  whole  court,  townsfolk, 
strangers,  reporters,  and  all  present,  —  without  leaving  the  box,  or 
any  manner  of  considtation  whatever,  they  brought  in  a  simultaneous 
verdict  of  Not  Guilty. 

The  judge,   who   was  a  shrewd  fellow,   winked  at  the    manifest 
iniquity  of  the  decision ;  and  when  the  court  was  dismissed,  went 
jMivately,  and  bought  up  all  the  pigs  that  could  be  had  for  love  or 
4«  p 


82  CATHCAar's   litkuvky   i:km>i;i;. 

money.  In  a  Uw  »la\-  lu>  Lordship's  town  house  was  observed  to  be 
on  fin*.  TIk  tliii'LT  t(MiN  w  iMi:,  and  now  there  \va>  noihi""-  <-»  ^"'  ^een  but 
tir.-  ill  ( \i  i-\  (iir.i-tioii.      I'uel  and  pigs  grew  eiionii' ■  all  over 

the  district.  The  insuranee-ofHces  one  and  all  shut  up  shop.  People 
built  slighter  and  sliirliter  eviiv  ila\.  until  it  was  feared  that  the  very 
science  of  anliitrciui-.-  uouKI    in  :iiiii-   Ix-  lo-l    to  llie  world. 

Thus  this  custom  of  lii'iug  houses  eoulinU((l,  till  in  j)ro(t>>  ot  time, 
says  my  manuscript,  a  sage  arose,  like  our  Lo(  k» .  xsho  in;ul<  a  dis- 
covery that  the  flesh  of  swine,  or  indeexl  of  any  other  animal,  im-lii 
be  cooked  (A#rr«/,  as  they  called  it;  without  the  neeesjbiiy  of  eoubuui;  ^ 
a  whole  house  to  dress  it.  Then  first  began  the  rude  form  o! 
gridiron.  Bx)asting  by  the  string  or  spit  came  in  a  century  or  two 
later,  T  for*ret  in  whose  dynasty.  By  such  slow  degrees,  concludes 
tin  ni aiiUM  rij>t.  do  the  most  useful  and  seemingly  the  most  obvious 
arts  make  their  way  among  mankind. 

Without  placine:  too  implicit  faith  in  the  account  above  givm,  ii 
must  be  agreed,  that  it  a  worthy  pretext  for  so  dangerous  an  experi- 
ment as  setting  houses  on  fire  (especially  in  these  days)  could  be 
assigned  in  favor  of  any  culinary  object,  that  pretext  and  excuse  mi^^iit 
be  found  in  koast  PIG. 

Of  all  tlie  delicacies  in  the  whole  mundiM  edidilisy  I  will  maintain  it 
to  be  the  most  di  lic.ti . 


In  comparing  modern  with  ancient  manners,  we  are  pleased  to  com- 
pliment ourselves  upon  the  point  of  gallantry,  —  a  certain  obsequious- 
ness or  deferential  respect  which  we  are  supposed  to  pay  to  females  as 
females. 

I  shall  be  disposed  to  admit  this  when,  in  polite  circles,  I  shall  see 
the  same  attentions  paid  to  age  as  to  youth,  to  homely  features  as  to 
handsome,  to  coarse  complexions  as  to  clear ;  to  the  woman  as  she  is 
a  woman,  not  as  she  is  a  beauty,  a  fortune,  or  a  title.  I  shall  believe 
it  to  be  something  more  than  a  name  when  a  well-dressed  gentleman 
in  a  wdl-dressed  company  can  advert  to  the  topic  of  female  old  arjr 
without  exeltinir.  and  intendin2:  t(j  excite,  a  sneer;  when  the  phra- 
"  auti([uattHl  vir<rinity,"  and  sinh  a  one  has  "  overstood  her  market, 
prououiu  eil  in  i^ood  company,  shall  raise  immediate  oflfense  in  man  or 
woman  that  shall  hear  them  spoken. 


WEBSTEE.  8;i 

WEBSTER. 

1782 -1852. 

DA!f  rxL  Wkbstf.r,  the  mo«t  illustrious  of  American  statesmen,  was  bom  in  Salisbury,  New 
Hampshire,  in  llHi.  and  died  at  Marshlield,  BiassachusetU,  in  1852.  As  an  orator  and  a  states- 
man he  IS  Jlii.  fly  known;  but  his  writings,  fragmentary  though  they  arc,  deservedly  rank  among 
the  bt^t  spt  cimens  of  our  literature.  Our  first  extract  ii  from  an  article  which  he  contributed 
to  the  AVr/A  JmericaH  RetUw,  and  the  second  is  from  his  memorable  speech  at  the  centennial 
celebration  of  tlie  birthday  of  Washington. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BXrKKEB  HILL.* 

No  national  drama  was  ever  developed  in  a  more  interesting  and 
splendid  first  scene.     The  incidents  and  the  result  of  the  battle  itself 
were  most  important,  and  indeed  most  wonderful.     As  a  mere  battle, 
few  surpass  it  in  whatever  engages  and  interests  the  attention.     It 
was  fought  on  a  conspicuous  eminence,  in  the  immediate  neighborhood 
of  a  popidous  city,  and  consequently  in  the  view  of  thousands  of  spec- 
tators.    The  attacking  army  moved  over  a  sheet  of  water  to  the  assault. 
The  operations  and  movements  were  of  course  all  visible  and  all  dis- 
tinct.    Those  who  looked  on  from  the  houses  and  heights  of  Boston 
liad  a  fuller  view  of  every  important  oper.ition  and  event  than  can 
irdinarily  be  ha<l  of  any  battle,  or  than  can  possibly  be  had  of  such 
IS  are  fought  on  a  more  extended  ground,  or  by  detachments  of  troops 
leting  in  different  places,  and  at  different  times,  and  in  some  measure 
indcptmdently  of  each  other.     When  the  British  columns  were  ad- 
vancing to  the  attack,  the  flames  of  Charlestown  (fired,  as  is  generally 
supposed,  by  a  shell)  began  to  ascend.     The  spectators,  far  outnum- 
bering both  armies,  thronged  and  crowded  on  every  height  and  every 
point  which  afforded  a  view  of  the  scene,  themselves  constituted  a 
very  important  part  of  it.     The  troops  of  the  two  armies  seemed  like 
so  many  combatants  in  an  amphitheater.     The  manner  in  which  they 
should  acquit  themselves  was  to  be  judged  of,  not,  as  in  other  cases 
of  military  engagements,  by  reports  and  future  history,  but  by  a  vast 
and  anxious  assembly  already  on  the  spot,  and  waiting  with  imspeak- 
able  concern  and  emotion  the  progress  of  the  day.     In  other  Iwittles 
the  recollection  of  wives  and  children  has  l>een  used  as  an  excitement 

*  One  of  the  first,  and  one  of  the  moat  celebrated  battles  of  the  ReTolutionary  War,  firaglU 

me  17,  177&.     It  is  rommemorated  by  a  granite  obeluk,  two  hundred  and  twenty  feet  high, 

the  batUe-ground  in  Charlestown.  Mass..  the  eoraer-atonc  of  whirh  was  laid  by  Lafiiyetie 


84  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

to  animate  the  warrior's  breast  and  nerve  his  arm.  Here  was  not  i 
mere  recollection,  but  an  actual  presence  of  them,  and  other  dear  con. 
nections,  hanging  on  the  skirts  of  the  battle,  anxious  and  agitated 
feeling  almost  as  if  wounded  themselves  by  every  blow  of  the  enemy, 
and  putting  forth,  as  it  were,  their  own  strength,  and  all  the  energy 
of  their  own  throbbing  bosoms,  into  every  gallant  effort  of  their  war- 
ring  friends.  But  there  was  a  more  comprehensive  and  vastly  nii 
important  view  of  that  day's  contest  than  has  been  mentioned,  —  a 
view,  indtJcd,  which  ordinary  eyes,  bent  intently  on  what  was  imme- 
diat^^ly  before  them,  did  not  embrace,  but  which  was  perceived  in 
full  extent  and  expansion  by  minds  of  a  higher  order.  Those  nit  .1 
who  were  at  the  head  of  the  colonial  councils,  who  had  been  engaged 
for  years  in  the  previous  stages  of  the  quarrel  with  England,  and  who 
had  been  accustomed  to  look  forward  to  the  future,  were  well  apprised 
of  the  magnitude  of  the  events  likely  to  hang  on  the  business  of  that 
day.  They  saw  in  it  not  only  a  battle,  but  the  beginning  of  a  civil 
war  of  unmeasured  extent  and  uncertain  issue.  All  America  and  all 
England  were  likely  to  be  deeply  concerned  in  the  consequences.  The 
individuals  themselves,  who  knew  fidl  well  what  agency  they  had  in 
bringing  affairs  to  this  crisis,  luul  need  of  all  their  courage,  —  not  that 
disreganl  of  personal  safety  in  which  the  vulgar  suppose  true  courage 
to  consist,  but  that  high  and  fixed  moral  sentiment,  that  steady  and 
decided  purpose,  which  enables  men  to  pursue  a  distant  end,  with  a 
full  view  of  the  difficulties  and  dangers  before  them,  and  with  a  con- 
viction that,  before  they  must  arrive  at  the  proposed  end,  should  they 
ever  reach  it,  they  must  pass  through  evil  report  as  well  as  good 
report,  and  he  liable  to  obloquy  as  well  as  to  defeat.  Spirits  that  fear 
nothing  else  fear  disgrace ;  and  this  danger  is  necessarily  encountered 
by  those  who  engage  in  civil  war.  Unsuccessful  resistance  is  not 
only  niin  to  its  authors,  but  is  esteemed,  and  necessarily  so,  by  the 
laws  of  all  countries,  treasonable.  This  is  the  case,  at  least,  till  re- 
sistance becomes  so  general  and  formidable  as  to  assume  the  form  of 
regular  war.  But  who  can  tell,  when  resistance  commences,  whether 
it  will  attain  even  to  that  degree  of  success  ?  Some  of  those  persons 
who  signed  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  in  1776,  described  them- 
selves as  signing  it  "  as  with  halters  about  their  necks."  If  there 
were  grounds  for  this  remark  in  1776,  when  the  cause  had  become  so 
much  more  general,  how  much  greater  was  the  hazard  when  the  battle 
of  Bunker  HiU  was  fought !     These  considerations  constituted,  to  en- 


WEBSTER.  85 

lartrcd  and  libt-ml  iiiiiuU,  the  moral  sublimity  of  the  occasion,  while  to 
tlu'  outward  senses,  the  movement  of  armies,  the  roar  of  artillery,  the 
hrilliancy  of  the  reflection  of  a  summer's  sun  from  tiie  burnished 
armor  of  the  British  columns,  and  the  flames  of  a  burning  town, 
made  up  a  scene  of  extraordinary  grandeur. 

EULOGIUM  ON  WASHINGTON. 

1  RISE,  gentlemen,  to  propose  to  you  the  name  of  that  great  man, 
in  commemoration  of  whose  birth  and  in  honor  of  whose  character 
and  services  we  are  here  assembled. 

I  am  sure  that  I  express  a  sentiment  common  to  every  one  present 
when  I  say,  that  there  is  something  more  than  ordinarily  solemn  and 
aflVeting  on  this  occasion. 

We  are  met  to  testify  our  regard  for  him  whose  name  is  inti- 
mately blended  with  whatever  belongs  most  essentially  to  the  pros- 
perity, the  liberty,  the  free  institutions,  and  the  renown  of  our 
eoiintr}-.  That  name  was  of  power  to  rally  a  nation,  in  the  hour  of 
thick-thronging  public  disasters  and  calamities  ;  that  name  shone, 
amid  the  storm  of  war,  a  lx?acon-light,  to  cheer  and  guide  the 
country's  friends ;  it  flamed,  too,  like  a  meteor,  to  repel  her  foes. 
That  name,  in  the  days  of  peace,  was  a  loadstone,  attracting  to 
itself, a  whole  people's  confidence,  a  whole  people's  love,  and  the 
whole  world's  respect ;  that  name,  descending  with  all  time,  spreatling 
over  the  whole  earth,  and  uttered  in  all  the  languages  Ix^longing  to 
the  trilxjs  and  races  of  men,  will  forever  be  pronounced  with  aflfec- 
tionate  gratitude  by  every  one  in  whose  breast  there  sliall  arise  an 
aspiration  for  human  rights  and  human  liberty. 

We  perform  this  grateful  duty,  gentlemen,  at  the  expiration  of  a 
hundred  years  from  his  birth,  near  the  place  so  cherished  and 
beloved  by  him,  when;  his  dust  now  reposes,  and  in  the  capital 
which  Ix^ars  his  own  immortal  i»ame. 

I  All  expt^riencc  evinces  that  liuman  sentiments  are  strongly  affected 
by  associations.  The  recurrence  of  anniversaries,  or  of  longer  priods 
of  time,  naturally  fn'shens  the  recollection,  and  deepens  the  impres- 
sion, of  events  with  which  they  are  historically  coimected.  Re- 
liowned  places,  also,  liave  a  power  to  awaken  feeling,  which  all 
acknowledge.     No  American  can  pass  bv  the  fields  of  Bunker  Hill, 


86  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

surface.  Whoever  visits  them  feels  the  sentiment  of  love  of  country 
kindling  anew,  as  if  the  spirit  that  belonged  to  the  transactions  which 
have  rendered  these  places  distinguished  still  hovered  round  with 
power  to  move  and  excite  all  who  in  future  time  may  approach  them. 
But  neither  of  these  sources  of  emotion  equals  the  power  with 
which  great  moral  examples  affect  the  mind.  When  sublime  virtues 
cease  to  be  abstractions,  when  they  become  embodied  in  human 
character,  and  exemplified  in  human  conduct,  we  should  be  false  to 
our  own  nature,  if  we  did  not  indulge  in  the  spontaneous  effusions 
of  our  gratitude  and  our  admiration.  A  true  lover  of  the  virtue  of 
patriotism  delights  to  contemplate  its  purest  models ;  and  that  love 
of  country  may  be  well  suspected  which  affects  to  soar  so  high  into 
the  regions  of  sentiment  as  to  be  lost  and  absorbed  in  the  abstract 
feeling,  and  becomes  too  elevated,  or  too  refined,  to  glow  with  fer\'or 
in  the  commendation  or  the  love  of  individuid  benefactors.  All  this  is 
unnatural.  It  is  as  if  one  should  be  so  enthusiastic  a  lover  of  poetry 
as  to  care  nothing  for  Homer  ♦  or  Milton ;  so  passionately  attached 
to  eloquence  as  to  be  indifferent  to  Tully  f  and  Chatham  J ;  or  such 
a  devotee  to  the  arts,  in  such  an  ecstasy  with  the  elements  of  beauty, 
proportion,  and  expression,  as  to  regard  the  masterpieces  of  Raphael  § 
and  Michael  Angelo  §  with  coldness  or  contempt.  We  may  be 
assured,  gentlemen,  that  he  who  really  loves  the  thing  itself  loves  its 
finest  exhibitions.  A  true  friend  of  his  country, loves  her  friends  and 
benefactors,  and  thinks  it  no  degradation  to  commend  and  commem- 
orate them.  The  voluntary  outpouring  of  public  feeling  made  to-day, 
from  the  north  to  the  south,  and  from  the  east  to  the  west,  proves 
this  sentiment  to  be  both  just  and  natural.  In  the  cities  and  in  the 
villages,  in  the  public  temples  and  in  the  family  circles,  among  all 
ages  and  sexes,  gladdened  voices  to-day  bespeak  grateful  hearts,  and  a 
freshened  recollection  of  the  virtues  of  the  father  of  his  country.  And 
it  will  be  so  in  all  time  to  come,  so  long  as  public  virtue  is  itself  an 
object  of  regard.  The  ingenuous  youth  of  America  ynW  hold  up  to 
themselves  the  bright  model  of  Washington's  example,  and  study 
to  be  what  they  behold ;  they  will  contemplate  his  character  till  all 

*  Homer.  The  greatest  of  the  Greek  poets :  lived  about  915  b.  c.  The  Hiad  stands  at  the 
head  of  all  epic  poetry. 

+  TuLLT.     More  commonly  known  as  Cicero,  the  famous  Roman  orator.    See  Plutarch's  Livet. 

t  Chatham.    An  illustrious  English  statesman  and  orator,  bom  I7O8. 

^  Raphael;  Mich.vel  Angelo.  Celebrated  Italians ;  the  former  as  a  painter,  and  the  latter 
as  a  sculptor  and  architect.     Both  bom  in  the  latter  part  of  the  fifteenth  century. 


WEBSTER.  87 

its  virtues  spread  out  and  display  themselves  to  their  delighted 
vision,  as  the  earliest  astronomers,  the  shepherds  on  the  plains  of 
Babylon,  gazed  at  the  stars  till  they  saw  them  form  into  clusters 
and  constellations,  ovirpowering  at  length  the  eyes  of  the  beholders 
with  the  united  blaze  of  a  thousand  lights. 

Grentleraen,  we  are  at  the  point  of  a  century  from  the  birth  of 
Washington ;  and  what  a  century  it  has  been !  During  its  course 
the  human  mind  has  seemed  to  proceed  with  a  sort  of  geometric 
velocity,  accomplishing,  for  human  intelligence  and  human  freedom, 
more  than  had  been  done  in  lives  or  tens  of  centuries  preceding. 
Washington  stands  at  the  commencement  of  a  new  era,  as  well  as 
at  the  head  of  the  new  world.  A  century  from  the  birth  of  Wash- 
ington has  changed  the  world.  The  country  of  Washington  has  been 
the  theater  on  which  a  great  part  of  that  change  has  lx*en  wrought ; 
and  Washington  himself  a  principal  agent  by  which  it  has  been  accom- 
plished. His  age  and  his  country  are  equally  full  of  wonders,  and  of 
both  he  is  the  chief. 

If  the  prediction  of  the  poet,  uttered  a  few  years  before  his  birth, 
be  true  ;  if  indeed  it  be  designed  by  Providence  that  the  proudest 
exhibition  of  human  character  and  human  affairs  shall  be  made  on 
this  theater  of  the  Western  world ;  if  it  be  true  that, 

"  The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  sliall  close  the  drama  of  the  day ; 
Time's  noblest  offsprinjc  is  the  last  "  ; 

how  could  this  imposing,  swelling,  final  scene  be  appropriately 
opened,  how  could  its  intense  interest  be  adequately  sustained,  but 
by  the  introduction  of  just  such  a  character  as  our  Washington  ? 

Washington  had  attained  his  manhood  when  that  spark  of  liberty 
was  struck  out  in  his  own  country,  which  has  since  kindled  into  a 
flame,  and  shot  its  beams  over  the  earth.  In  the  flow  of  a  century 
from  his  birth,  the  world  has  changed  in  science,  in  arts,  in  the 
extent  of  commerce,  in  the  improvement  of  navigation,  and  in  all 
that  relates  to  the  civil iziition  of  man.  But  it  is  the  spirit  of  human 
freedom,  the  new  elevation  of  individual  man,  in  his  moral,  social, 
and  political  character,  leading  the  whole  long  train  of  other  im- 
provements, which  has  most  remarkably  distinguished  the  era. 
Society,  in  this  century,  has  not  made  its  progn'ss,  like  Chinese 
skill,  by  a  greater  acuteness  of  ingenuity  in  trifles ;  it  has  not 
merely  hished  itself  to  an  increased  speed  round  the  old  circles  of 


88  cathcajit's  literary  reader. 

thought  and  action ;  but  it  has  assumed  a  new  character ;  it  has 
raised  itseli"  from  beneath  governments  to  participation  in  govern- 
ments ;  it  has  mixed  moral  and  political  objects  with  the  dailv 
pursuits  of  individual  men,  and,  with  a  freedom  and  strength  b(?forc 
altogether  unknown,  it  has  applied  to  these  objects  the  whole  power 
of  the  human  understanding.  It  has  been  the  era,  in  short,  when 
the  social  principle  has  triumphed  over  the  feudal  principle ;  when 
society  has  maintained  its  rights  against  military  power,  and  estab- 
lished, on  foundations  never  hereafter  to  be  shaken,  ite  competency 
to  govern  itself. 

THE  AMEBICAK  UNION. 

When  my  eyes  turn  to  behold  for  the  last  time  the  sun  in  heaven, 
may  they  not  see  him  shining  on  the  broken  and  dishonored  frag- 
ments of  a  once  glorious  Union ;  on  States  dissevered,  discordant, 
belligerent ;  on  a  land  rent  with  civil  feuds ;  or  drenched,  it  may  be, 
in  fraternal  blood.  Let  their  last  feeble  and  lingering  glance  rather 
behold  the  gorgeous  ensign  of  the  Rt^public,  now  known  and  honored 
throughout  the  earth,  still  full  high  advanced  ;  its  arms  and  trophies 
streaming  in  all  their  original  luster  ;  not  a  stripe  erased  or  polluted  ; 
not  a  single  stjir  obscured ;  bearing  for  its  motto  no  such  miserable 
interrogatory  as  "  What  is  all  this  worth  ?  "  nor  those  other  words 
of  delusion  and  folly,  of  Lilxirty  first,  and  Union  afterwards,  but 
everywhere,  spread  all  over  in  characters  of  living  light,  and  blaz- 
ing on  all  its  ample  folds,  as  they  float  over  the  sea  and  over  the 
land,  and  in  every  wind  under  the  whole  heavens,  that  other  senti- 
ment dear  to  every  American  heart,  —  "Liberty  and  Union,  —  now 
and  forever,  —  one  and  inseparable." 


Our  fathers  raised  their  flag  against  a  power  to  which,  for  pur- 
poses of  foreign  conquest  and  subjugation,  Rome,  in  the  liight  of  her 
glory,  is  not  to  be  compared,  — a  power  which  has  dotted  the  surface 
of  the  whole  globe  with  her  possessions  and  military  posts,  whose 
morning  drum-beat,  following  the  sun  in  his  course,  and  keeping  pace 
with  the  hours,  circles  the  earth  with  one  continuous  and  unbroken 
strain  of  the  martial  airs  of  England. 


IRVIMG.  89 

IRVING. 

1 783 -1 859. 

No  name  m  our  iiteniry  annals  is  more  fondly  rherished  than  (hat  of  Wnshinirton  Irvinj?,  one 
of  the  earliest  and  most  distinguished  of  American  writers.  He  was  Imm  in  New  York  in  I7H3, 
and  died  at  Suunyside,  his  huuic  on  the  Hudson,  in  1850.  He  began  his  literary  career  by  con- 
tributing to  the  columns  of  the  Morning  CAroMule,  of  which  his  brother,  Dr.  PeU-r  Irving,  was 
rdiuir.  Hu  health  taihng,  be  went  to  Europe,  where  he  remained  two  years.  Un  his  return  bo 
V  '..    bar,  but  gave  little  attention  to  his  profession,     lit  IHO?  appeared  the  first 

.1,  ur  the  U'kim-lt'hattu  and  Op'tHumt  of  Launcelot  Langttaff  and  Otkert,  a 
h-ai  of  light  and  agreeable  character,  which  was  very  popular  during  its 
fxistencf  ut  iv»»  thiui  two  years.  In  lt^9  the  faiuous  History  of  New  I'ork,  by  Diedriek  Ktuck- 
trhocker,  was  published,  and  had  a  most  cordial  reception.  The  next  year  Washmgton  Irving 
Ix'cniiu-  a  {Hirtuer  in  the  mercantile  business  conducted  by  his  broihcrs ;  but  in  1»12  the  firm 
faili  <l,  and  the  young  author  returned  to  literary  labors,  llie  Sketch-Uook  appeared  m  1819,  and 
(.•st.iljlislK-d  his  fame  in  Kn<;land  and  America.  Bracebridge  Hall,  The  Conquett  of  Granada,  Tk4 
Lf,-  .;/  r„lum>jits,  anil  otlier  works,  were  issued  at  intervals  prior  to  1832.  In  1842  he  was 
a|i|>tiiiitcd  I  uitrd  .Stales  .Minister  to  Spain,  and  held  that  office  four  years.  After  his  return  he 
vvrutc  a  Life  of  Goldtmitk,  Thf  Life  of  U'askinglon,  Mahomet  and  hia  Succeuora,  etc  It  is  safe 
to  say  that  no  .\meriran  autlior  has  been  so  generally  and  heartily  loved  as  Washington  Irving, 
and  he  was  as  popular  in  England  as  at  home.  But  his  fame  is  by  no  means  wholly  due  to  the 
qualities  of  his  heart  ,  his  intellectual  powers  were  of  (he  first  cbss,  but  were  largely  controlled 
by  his  native  amiability,  which  shed  a  sunny  radiance  over  all  his  writings.  His  style  remains 
to  this  day  a  model  of  ease,  grace,  and  refinement.  Our  extracts  are  firom  The  Skelch-Book  and 
Tht  Life  qf  Colmmhu*. 

ICHABOD  CRANE. 

In  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  spacious  coves  which  indent  the 
easttrn  sliorc  of  tlio  Hudson,  at  that  broad  expansion  of  the  river 
denoniinatcd  by  the  ancient  Dutcli  navigators  the  Tappan  Zee,  and 
where  they  always  prudently  shortened  sail,  and  implored  the  protec- 
tion of  St.  Nicholas  when  they  crossed,  there  lies  a  small  market-town 
or  rural  port,  which  by  some  is  callwl  Greensburgh,  but  which  is 
more  genendly  and  properly  known  by  the  name  of  Tarry  Town. 
This  name  was  given,  we  are  told,  in  former  days,  by  the  good  house- 
wives of  the  adjacent  country,  from  the  inveterate  propensity  of  their 
hnsbands  to  linger  about  the  village  tavern  on  market-<lays.  Be  that 
as  it  may,  I  do  not  vouch  for  the  fact,  but  merely  advert  to  it,  for  the 
«ikr  of  IxM'ng  precise  and  authentic.  Not  far  from  this  village,  per- 
haps about  two  miles,  there  is  a  little  valley,  or  rather  lap  of  land, 
among  high  hills,  which  is  one  of  the  quietest  places  in  the  whole 
world.  A  small  brook  glidt's  through  it,  with  just  murnuir  enough  to 
bdl  one  to  repose ;  and  the  ocrasional  whistle  of  a  quail,  or  tapping 
of  a  woo(l|)c(kfr,  is  almost  the  only  sound  that  ever  breaks  in  upon 
the  uniform  tnuKjiiillily 


iiO  c;ATiicAKi's   litkraky   reader. 

I  recollect  that,  when  a  stripling,  my  first  exploit  in  squiiTcl-shoot- 
ing  was  in  a  grove  of  tall  walnut-trees  that  shades  one  side  of  the 
valley.  I  had  wandered  into  it  at  noon-time,  when  all  nature  is  pecu- 
liarly quiet,  and  was  startled  by  the  roar  of  my  own  gun,  as  it  broke 
the  Sabbath  stillness  around,  and  was  prolonged  and  reverberated  by 
the  angry  echoes.  If  ever  I  should  wish  for  a  retreat,  whither  I 
might  steal  from  the  world  and  its  distractions,  and  dream  quietly 
away  the  remnant  of  a  troubled  life,  I  know  of  none  more  promis- 
ing than  this  little  valley. 

From  the  listless  repose  of  the  pkce,  and  the  peculiar  character  of 
its  inhabitants,  who  are  descendants  from  the  original  Dutch  settlers, 
this  sequestered  glen  has  long  been  known  by  the  name  of  Sleefv 
Hollow,  and  its  rustic  lads  are  called  the  Sleepy  Hollow  Ikns 
throughout  all  the  neighboring  country.  A  drowsy,  dreamy  influence 
seems  to  hang  over  the  land,  and  to  pervade  the  very  atmosphere. 
Some  say  that  the  place  was  bewitched  by  a  high  Gennan  doctor, 
during  the  early  days  of  the  settlement;  others,  that  an  old  Indian 
chief,  the  prophet  or  wizard  of  his  tribe,  held  his  powwows  then' 
before  the  country  was  discovered  by  Master  Hendrick  Hudson.* 
Certain  it  is,  the  place  still  continues  under  the  sway  of  some  witch- 
ing power,  that  holds  a  spell  over  the  minds  of  the  good  people,  caus- 
ing them  to  walk  in  a  continual  reverie.  They  are  given  to  all  kinds 
of  marvelous  beliefs  ;  are  subject  to  trances  and  visions ;  and  fre- 
quently see  strange  sights,  and  hear  music  and  voices  in  the  air.  The 
whole  neighboriiood  abounds  with  local  tales,  haunted  spots,  and 
twilight  superstitions;  stars  shoot  and  meteors  glare  oftener  across 
the  valley  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  country,  and  the  nightmare, 
with  her  whole  nine  fold,  seems  to  make  it  the  favorite  scene  of  her 
gambols. 

The  dominant  spirit,  however,  that  haunts  this  enchanted  region, 
and  seems  to  be  commander-in-chief  of  all  the  powers  of  the  air,  is 
the  apparition  of  a  figure  on  horselmck  without  a  head.  It  is  said 
by  some  to  be  the  ghost  of  a  Hessian  trooper,  whose  head  had  been 
carried  away  by  a  cannon-ball,  in  some  nameless  battle  during  the 
Revolutionary  War ;  and  who  is  ever  and  anon  seen  by  the  country 
folk,  hurrying  along  in  the  gloom  of  night,  as  if  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind.  His  haunts  are  not  confined  to  the  valley,  but  extend  at  times 
to  the  adjacent  roatls,  and  especially  to  the  vicinity  of  a  church  at  no 

*  Henkt  Hudson.    An  eminent  English  navigator.    He  discovered  the  Hadson  River  in  1609. 


lUVING. 


91 


jrmit  distance.  Indeed,  certain  of  the  most  authentic  historians  of 
those  parts,  who  have  been  careful  in  collecting  and  collating  the 
tlojiting  facts  concerning  this  specter,  allege  that,  the  body  of  the 
trooptT  having  been  buried  in  the  church-yard,  the  ghost  rides  forth 
to  the  scene  of  Iwttle  in  nightly  quest  of  his  head ;  and  that  the  rush- 
ing speed  with  which  he  sometimes  passes  along  the  Hollow,  like  a 
midnight  blast,  is  owing  to  his  being  belated,  and  in  a  hurry  to  get 
iMick  to  the  church-yard  before  daybreak. 

Such  is  the  general  purport  of  this  legendary  superstition,  which 
has  furnished  materials  for  many  a  wild  story  in  that  region  of 
shadow^s  ;  and  the  specter  is  known,  at  all  the  country  firesides,  by  the 
name  of  the  Headless  Horseman  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  visionary  propensity  I  have  mentioned  is 
not  confined  to  the  native  inhabitants  of  the  valley,  but  is  uncon- 
sciously imbibed  by  every  one  who  resides  there  for  a  time.  How- 
ever wider  awake  they  may  have  been  before  they  entered  that  sleepy 
n  irion,  they  are  suite,  in  a  little  time,  to  inhale  the  witching  influence 
of  tile  air,  and  l)egin  to  grow  imaginative,  —  to  dream  dreams  and  see 
ipparitions. 

I  mention  this  peaceful  spot  with  all  possible  laud ;  for  it  is  in 
such  little  retired  Dutch  valleys,  found  here  and  there  embosomed  in 
the  great  State  of  New  York,  that  population,  manners,  and  customs 
remain  fixed ;  while  the  great  torrent  of  migration  and  improvement 
which  is  making  such  incessant  changes  in  other  parts  of  this  restless 
country  sweeps  by  them  unobserved.  They  are  like  those  little 
nooks  of  still  water  which  border  a  rapid  stream ;  where  we  may  see 
the  straw  and  bubble  riding  quietly  at  anchor,  or  slowly  revolving  in 
their  mimic  harbor,  undisturl)ed  by  the  rush  of  the  passing  current. 
Though  many  years  have  elapsed  since  I  trod  the  drowsy  shades 
of  Sleepy  Hollow,  yet  I  question  whether  I  should  not  still  fiiul 
the  same  tr^'cs  aiul  the  same  families  vegetating  in  its  sheltered 
l)osom. 

In  this  by-place  of  nature  there  abode,  in  a  remote  period  of 
.Vmerican  history,  that  is  to  say,  some  thirty  years  since,  a  worthy 
wight  of  the  name  of  Ichabod  Crane  ;  who  sojourned,  or,  as  he  ex- 
pressed it,  "  tarried,"  in  Sleepy  Hollow,  for  the  purpose  of  instruct- 
ing the  children  of  the  vicinity.  He  was  a  native  of  Connecticut ;  a 
State  which  supplies  the  Union  with  pioneers  for  the  mind  as  well  as 
lor  the  forest,  and  sends  forth  yearly  its  legions  of  frontier  woodsmen 


92  CATHC art's  literary  reader. 

and  country  schoolmasters.  The  cognomen  of  Crane  was  not  inap- 
plicable to  his  person.  He  was  tall,  but  exceedingly  lank,  with  nar- 
row shoulders,  long  arms  and  legs,  hands  that  dangled  a  mile  out 
of  his  sleeves,  feet  that  might  have  served  for  shovels,  and  his 
whole  frame  most  loosely  hung  together.  His  head  was  small,  and 
flat  at  top,  with  huge  ears,  large  green  glassy  eyes,  and  a  long  snipe 
nose,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  weathercock,  perched  upon  his  spindh- 
neck,  to  tell  which  way  the  wind  blew.  To  see  him  striding  aloiij,^ 
the  profile  of  a  hill  on  a  windy  day,  with  his  clothes  bagging  and  flut- 
tering about  him,  one  might  have  mistaken  him  for  the  genius  of 
famine  descending  upon  the  earth,  or  some  scarecrow  eloped  from  a 
cornfield. 

His  school-house  was  a  low  building  of  one  large  room,  rudely 
constructed  of  logs ;  the  windows  partly  glazed,  and  partly  patched 
with  leaves  of  old  copy-books.  It  was  most  ingeniously  secured 
at  vacant  hours  by  a  withe  twisted  in  the  liandle  of  the  door,  and 
stakes  set  against  the  window-shutters  ;  so  that,  though  a  thief  might 
get  in  with  perfect  ease,  he  would  find  some  embarrassment  in  getting: 
out ;  an  ide^  most  probably  borrowed  by  the  architect,  Yost  Van 
Houten,  from  the  mystt-ry  of  an  eel-pot.  The  school-house  stood  in 
a  rather  lonely  but  pleasant  situation,  just  at  the  foot  of  a  woody  hill, 
with  a  brook  running  close  by,  and  a  formidable  birch-tree  growing 
at  one  end  of  it.  From  hence  the  low  murmur  of  his  pupils'  voices, 
conning  over  their  lessons,  might  be  heard  in  a  drowsy  summer's  day, 
like  the  hum  of  a  beehive,  interrupted  now  and  then  by  the  authorita- 
tive voice  of  the  master,  in  the  tone  of  menace  or  command  ;  or,  per- 
adventure,  by  the  appalling  sound  of  the  birch,  as  he  urged  some 
tardy  loiterer  along  the  flowery  path  of  knowledge.  Truth  to  say,  he 
was  a  conscientious  man,  and  ever  bore  in  mind  the  golden  maxim, 
"  Spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child."  —  Ichabod  Crane's  scholars  cer- 
tainly were  not  spoiled. 

I  would  not  have  it  imagined,  however,  that  he  was  one  of  those 
cruel  potentates  of  the  school,  who  joy  in  the  smnrt  of  their  subjects ; 
on  the  contran\  he  administered  justice  with  discrimination  rather 
than  severity  ;  taking  the  burden  off  the  l)acks  of  the  weak,  and  laying 
it  on  those  of  the  strong.  Your  mere  puny  stripling,  that  winced  at 
the  least  flourish  of  the  rod,  was  passed  by  with  indulgence  ;  but  the 
claims  of  justice  were  satisfied  by  inflicting  a  double  portion  on  some 
little,  tough,  wrong-headed,  broad-skirted  Dutch  iir.^hin,  who  sulked 


I 


IRVING.  93 

and  swelled  and  gn^w  doj^ed  and  sullen  beneath  the  birch.  All  this 
he  callfd  "  doiiijf  his  duty  by  their  parents  "  ;  and  he  never  inflicted 
a  chastisement  without  following  it  by  the  assurance,  so  consolatory 
to  the  smarting  urchin,  that  "  he  would  remember  it,  and  tlmnk  him 
for  it,  the  longest  day  he  had  to  live." 

ICHABOD  CRANE  (continued). 

When  school-hours  were  over,  he  was  even  the  companion  and 
playmate  of  the  larger  boys ;  and  on  holiday  afternoons  would  con- 
voy some  of  the  smaller  ones  home,  who  happened  to  have  pretty 
sisters,  or  good  housewives  for  mothers,  noted  for  the  comforts  of  the 
cupboard.  Indeed,  it  behooved  him  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  his 
pupils.  The  revenue  arising  from  his  school  was  small,  and  would 
have  been  scarcely  sufficient  to  funiish  him  with  daily  bread,  for 
he  was  a  huge  feeder,  and,  though  lank,  had  the  dilating  powers 
of  an  anaconda;  but  to  help  out  his  maintenance,  he  was,  according 
to  country  custom  in  those  pjirts,  boarded  and  lodged  at  the  houses 
of  the  farmers,  whose  children  he  instructed.  With  these  he  lived 
successively  a  week  at  a  time ;  thus  going  the  rounds  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, with  all  his  worldly  efl'ects  tied  up  in  a  cotton  handkerchief. 

That  all  this  might  not  be  too  onerous  on  the  purses  of  his  nistic 
patrons,  who  are  apt  to  consider  the  costs  of  schooling  a  grievous 
burden,  and  schoolmasters  as  mere  drones,  he  had  various  ways  of 
Hindering  himself  l)oth  useful  and  agreeable.  He  assisted  the  farmers 
occasionally  in  the  lighter  labors  of  their  farms ;  helped  to  make  hay ; 
mended  the  fences ;  took  the  horses  to  water;  drove  the  cows  from 
pasture ;  cut  wood  for  the  winter  fire.  He  laid  aside,  too,  all  the 
dominant  dignity  and  absolute  sway  with  Avhich  he  lorded  it  in  his 
little  empire,  the  school,  and  became  wonderfully  gentle  and  ingra- 
tiating. He  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  mothers,  by  petting  the 
children,  particularly  the  youngest ;  and  like  the  lion  bold,  which 
whilom  so  magnanimously  thc^  lamb  did  hold,  he  would  sit  with  a 
chihl  on  one  knee,  and  rock  a  cradle  with  his  foot  for  whole  hours 
tc^ether. 

In  addition  to  his  other  vocations,  he  was  the  singing-master  of  the 
neigh l)orhood,  and  picketl  up  many  bright  shillings  by  instructing  the 
young  folks  in  psalmody.  It  was  a  matter  of  no  little  vanity  to  him, 
on  Sundays,  to  take  his  stition  in  front  of  the  church  gallery,  with  p. 


94  CATHCART*S    LITERARY    READER. 

band  of  chosen  singers;  where,  in  his  own  mind,  he  completely  carried 
away  the  palm  from  the  parson.  Certain  it  is,  his  voice  resouiidetl 
far  above  all  the  rest  of  the  congregation ;  and  there  are  peculiar 
quavers  still  "to  be  heard  in  that  church,  and  which  may  even  be 
heard  half  a  mile  off,  quite  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  mill-pond,  on 
a  still  Sunday  morning,  which  are  said  to  be  legitimately  descended 
from  the  nose  of  Ichabod  Crane.  Thus  by  divers  little  make-shifts  in 
that  ingenious  way  which  is  commonly  denominated  "  by  hook  and 
by  crook,**  the  worthy  pedagogue  got  on  tolerably  enough,  and  was 
thought,  by  all  who  understood  notliing  of  the  labor  of  head-work,  to 
have  a  wonderfully  easy  life  of  it. 

The  schoolmaster  is  generally  a  man  of  some  impoi^tance  in  the 
female  circle  of  a  rural  neighlwrhood ;  being  considered  a  kind  of  idle 
gentleman-like  personage,  of  vastly  superior  taste  and  accomplishments 
to  the  rough  country  swains,  and,  indeed,  inferior  in  learning  only  to 
the  parson.  His  appearance,  therefore,  is  apt  to  occasion  some  little 
stir  at  the  tea-table  of  a  farm-house,  and  the  addition  of  a  supernu- 
merary dish  of  cakes  or  sweetmeats,  or,  peradventure,  the  parade  of  a 
silver  tea-pot.  Our  man  of  letters,  therefore,  was  peculiarly  happy  in 
the  smiles  of  all  the  country  damsels.  How  he  would  figure  among 
them  in  the  church-yard,  between  services  on  Sundays!  gathering 
grapes  for  them  from  the  wild  vines  that  overrun  the  surrounding 
trees;  reciting  for  their  amusement  all  the  epitaphs  on  the  tomb- 
stones ;  or  sauntering,  with  a  whole  bevy  of  them,  along  the  banks 
of  the  adjacent  mill-pond ;  while  the  more  bashful  country  bumpkins 
hung  sheepishly  back,  envjing  his  superior  elegance  and  address. 

From  his  half  itinerant  life,  also,  he  was  a  kind  of  traveling  gazette, 
carrying  the  whole  budget  of  local  gossip  from  house  to  house ;  so 
that  his  appearance  was  always  greeted  with  satisfaction.  He  was, 
moreover,  esteemed  by  the  women  as  a  man  of  great  erudition,  for  he 
had  read  several  books  quite  through,  and  was  a  perfect  master  of 
Cotton  Mather's  History  of  New  England  Witchcraft,  in  which,  by 
the  way,  he  most  firmly  and  potently  believed. 

He  was,  in  fact,  a  mixture  of  small  shrewdness  and  simple  credu- 
lity. His  appetite  for  the  marvelous,  and  his  powers  of  digesting  it, 
were  equally  extraotjlinary ;  and  both  had  been  increased  by  his 
residence  in  this  spell-boimd  region.  No  tale  was  too  gross  or  mon- 
strous for  his  capacious  swallow.  It  was  often  his  delight,  after  his 
school  was  dismissed  in  the  afternoon,  to  stretch  himself  on  the  rich 


IRVIKO.  95 

ht'tl  of  clover,  bordering  the  little  brook  that  whimpered  by  his 
school-house,  and  there  con  over  old  Mather's  direful  tales,  until  the 
gathering  dusk  of  the  evening  made  the  printed  page  a  mere  mist 
l)efore  his  eyes.  Then,  as  he  wended  his  way,  by  swamp  and  stream 
and  awful  woodland,  to  the  farm-house  where  he  happened  to  be 
quartered,  every  sound  of  nature,  at  that  witching  hour,  fluttered 
his  excited  inuigination ;  the  moan  of  the  whip-poor-will  *  from  the 
hill-side ;  the  boding  cry  of  the  tree-toad,  that  harbinger  of  storm ; 
the  dreary  hooting  of  the  screech-owl,  or  the  sudden  nistling  in  the 
thicket  of  birds  frightened  from  their  roost.  The  fire-flics,  too, 
which  sparkled  most  vividly  in  the  darkest  places,  now  and  then 
startled  him,  as  one  of  uncommon  brightness  would  stream  across  his 
path  ;  and  if,  by  chance,  a  huge  blockhead  of  a  beetle  came  winging 
his  blundering  flight  against  him,  the  poor  varlet  was  ready  to  give 
up  the  ghost,  with  the  idea  that  he  was  struck  with  a  witch's  token. 
His  only  resource  on  such  occasions,  either  to  drown  thought,  or 
drive  away  evil  spirits,  was  to  sing  psalm-tunes ;  and  the  good  people 
of  Sleepy  Hollow,  as  they  sat  by  their  doors  of  an  evening,  were 
often  filled  with  awe,  at  hexiring  his  nasal  melody,  "  in  linked  sweet- 
ness long.dniwn  out,"  floating  from  the  distant  hill,  or  along  the 
dusky  road. 

Another  of  his  sources  of  fearful  pleasure  was,  to  pass  long  winter 
evenings  with  the  old  Dutch  wives,  as  they  sat  spinning  by  the  fire, 
with  a  row  of  apples  roasting  and  spluttering  along  the  hearth,  and 
listen  to  their  marvelous  tales  of  ghosts  and  goblins,  and  haunted 
fields,  and  haunted  brooks,  and  haunted  bridges,  and  haunted  houses, 
and  pirticularly  of  the  headless  horseman,  or  Galloping  Hessian  of 
the  Hollow,  as  they  sometimes  called  him.  He  woidd  delight  them 
equally  by  his  anecdotes  of  witchcraft,  and  of  the  direful  omens  and 
portentous  sights  and  sounds  in  the  air,  which  prevailed  in  the  earlier 
times  of  Connecticut ;  and  would  frighten  them  wofully  with  specula- 
tions upon  pomets  and  shooting  stars;  and  with  the  alarming  fact 
that  the  world  did  absolutely  turn  round,  and  that  they  were  half  the 
time  topsy-turvy ! 

But  if  there  was  a  pleasure  in  all  this,  while  snugly  cuddling  in  the 
chimney-comer  of  a  chamber  that  was  all  of  a  ruddy  glow  from  the 
{Tackling  wood-fire,  and  where,  of  course,  no  specter  dared  to  show 

*  The  vhip-poor-will  U  a  bini  which  is  only  heard  at  night.  It  receives  Us  name  from  its 
note,  wkkh  is  tboafht  to  resemble  those  words 


96  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

his  face,  it  was  dearly  purchased  by  the  terrors  of  his  subsequent  walk 
homewards.  What  fearful  shapes  and  shadows  beset  his  path  amidst 
the  dim  and  ghastly  glare  of  a  snowy  night !  —  With  what  wistful 
look  did  he  eye  every  trembling  my  of  light  streaming  across  the 
waste  fields  from  some  distant  window !  —  How  often  was  he  ap- 
palled by  some  shrub  covered  with  snow,  which,  like  a  sheeted  specter, 
beset  his  very  path !  —  How  often  did  he  shrink  with  curdling  awe 
at  the  sound  of  his  own  steps  on  the  frosty  crust  beneath  his  feet ; 
and  dread  to  look  over  his  shoulder,  lest  he  should  behold  some  un- 
couth being  tramping  close  behind  him !  —  and  how  often  was  he 
thix)wn  into  complete  dismay  by  some  rushing  blast,  howling  among 
the  trees,  in  the  idea  that  it  was  the  Galloping  Hessian  on  one  of  his 
nightly  scourings ! 

All  these,  however,  were  mere  terrors  of  the  night,  phantoms  of 
the  mind,  that  walk  in  darkness;  and  thougli  he  had  seen  many 
«pecters  in  his  time,  and  been  more  than  once  beset  by  Satan  in 
divers  shapes,  in  his  lonely  perambulations,  yet  daylight  put  an  end 
to  all  these  evils  ;  and  he  would  have  passed  a  pleasant  life  of  it,  in 
despite  of  the  devil  and  all  his  works,  if  his  path  had  not  been 
crossed  by  a  being  that  causes  more  perplexity  to  mortal  man  than 
ghosts,  goblins,  and  the  whole  race  of  witches  put  together,  and  that 
was  —  a  woman. 

THE  DISCOVEBT  OF  AMEBICA  BY  COLUMBUS.* 

It  was  on  Friday  morning,  the  12th  of  October,  1492,  that  Colum- 
bus first  beheld  the  New  World.  As  the  day  dawned  he  saw  before 
him  a  level  island,  several  leagues  in  extent,  and  covered  with  trees 
like  a  continual  orchard.  Though  apparently  uncultivated,  it  was 
populous,  for  the  inhabitants  were  seen  issuing  from  all  parts  of  the 
woods  and  running  to  the  shore.  They  were  perfectly  naked,  and,  as 
they  stood  gazing  at  the  ships,  appeared  by  their  attitudes  and  ges- 
tures to  be  lost  in  astonishment. 

Columbus  made  signals  for  the  ships  to  cast  anchor,  and  the  boats 
to  be  manned  and  armed.     He  entered  his  own  boat,  richly  attired  in 

•  Cheistopher  Columbvs,  the  discoverer  of  America,  was  born  at  Genoa  about  1440.  A  most 
interesting  and  instructive  account  of  his  marvelous  discoveries  and  career  is  gix  en  in  Irving's 
Life  of  Columbus  and  in  Prcscott's  Ferdinand  and  Isabella.  He  died  in  poverty  and  neglect,  and 
in  ignorance  rf  the  grandeur  of  his  discover}'.  He  supposed  that  he  liad  merely  reached  remote 
parts  of  Asia,  having  no  knowledge  whatever  that  he  had  discovered  a  continent 


lEVING.  flF7 

scarlet,  and  holding  the  royal  standard  ;  whilst  Martin  Alonzo  Pinzon 
and  Vincent  Janez  his  brother  put  off  in  company  in  their  Ijoats, 
each  with  a  banner  of  the  enterprise  emblazoned  with  a  green  cross, 
having  on  either  side  the  letters  F.  and  Y.,  the  initials  of  the  Cas- 
tilian  monarihs  Fernando  and  Ysabel,  surmounted  by  crowns. 

As  he  approached  the  shore,  Columbus,  who  was  disposed  for  all 
kinds  of  agreeable  impressions,  was  delighted  with  the  purity  and 
suavity  of  the  atmosphere,  the  crystal  transparency  of  the  svu,  and  the 
extraordinary  beauty  of  the  vegetation.  He  beheld,  also,  fruits  of  an 
unknown  kind  upon  the  trees  which  overhung  the  shores.  On  land- 
ing, he  threw  himself  on  his  knees,  kissed  the  earth,  and  returned 
thanks  to  God  with  tears  of  joy.  His  example  was  followed  by  the 
rest,  w1k)s«'  hearts  indeed  ov.-rrtowed  with  the  same  feelings  of  grati- 
tude 

Columbus,  then  rising,  drew  his  sword,  displayed  the  royal  stand- 
ard, and  assembling  round  him  the  two  captains,  with  Rodrigo  de 
Escolxfdo,  notary  of  the  armament,  Rodrigo  Sanchez,  and  the  rest 
who  hatl  landed,  he  took  solemn  possession  in  the  name  of  the  Cas- 
tilian  sovereigns,  giving  the  island  the  name  of  San  Salvador.  Having 
complied  with  the  requisite  forms  and  ceremonies,  he  called  upon  all 
present  to  take  the  oath  of  obedience  to  him,  as  admiral  and  viceroy 
representing  the  persons  of  the  sovereigns. 

The  feelings  of  the  crew  now  burst  forth  in  the  most  extravagant 
transports.  They  had  recently  considered  themselves  devoted  men, 
hurrying  forward  to  destruction ;  they  now  looked  upon  themselves  as 
favorites  of  fortune,  and  gave  themselves  up  to  the  most  unbounded 
joy.  They  thronged  around  the  admiral  with  overflowing  zeal,  some 
endiracing  him,  others  kissing  his  hands.  Those  who  had  been  most 
mutinous  and  turbulent  during  the  voyage  were  now  most  devoted 
and  enthusiastic.  Some  begged  favors  of  him,  as  if  he  had  already 
wmlth  and  honors  in  his  gift.  Many  abject  spirits,  who  had  out- 
raged him  by  their  insolence,  now  crouched  at  his  feet,  In'gging 
pardon  for  all  the  trouble  they  had  caused  him,  and  promising  the 
blindest  obedience  for  the  future. 

The  natives  of  the  island,  when,  at  the  dawn  of  day,  they  had 
beheld  the  ships  hovering  on  their  coast,  had  supposed  them  monsters 
which  luid  issued  from  the  deep  during  the  night.  They  had  crowded 
to  the  beach,  and  watched  their  movements  with  awful  anxiety.  Their 
veering  about,  apparently  without  effort,  and  the  shifting  and  furling 


98  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

of  their  sails,  resembling  huge  wings,  filled  them  with  astonishment. 
When  they  beheld  their  boats  approach  the  shore,  and  a  number  of 
strange  beings  clad  in  glittering  steel,  or  raiment  of  various  colors, 
landing  upon  the  beach,  they  fled  in  aflright  to  the  woods. 

Finding,  however,  that  there  was  no  attempt  to  pursue  nor  molest 
them,  they  gradually  recovered  from  their  terror,  and  approached  the 
Spaniards  with  great  awe,  frequently  prostrating  themselves  on  the 
earth,  and  making  signs  of  adoration.  During  the  ceremonies  of 
taking  possession,  they  remained  gazing  in  timid  admiration  at  the 
complexion,  the  beards,  the  shining  armor,  and  splendid  dress  of  the 
Spaniards.  The  admiral  particularly  attracted  their  attention,  from 
his  commanding  height,  his  air  of  authority,  his  dress  of  scarlet,  and 
the  deference  which  was  paid  him  by  his  companions;  all  which 
pointed  him  out  to  be  the  commander. 

When  they  had  still  further  recovered  from  their  fears,  they  ap- 
proached the  Spaniards,  touched  their  beards,  and  examined  their 
hands  and  faces,  admiring  their  whiteness.  Columbus  was  pleased 
with  their  gentleness  and  confiding  simplicity,  and  suffered  their 
scrutiny  with  perfect  acquiescence,  winning  them  by  his  benignity. 
They  now  supposed  that  the  ships  had  sailed  out  of  the  crystal  firma- 
ment which  bounded  their  horizon,  or  had  descended  from  above  on 
their  ample  wings,  and  that  these  marvelous  beings  were  inhabitants 
of  the  skies. 

The  natives  of  the  island  were  no  less  objects  of  curiosity  to  the 
Spaniards,  diflfering  as  they  did  from  any  race  of  men  they  had  ever 
seen.  Their  appearance  gave  no  promise  of  either  wealth  or  civiliza- 
tion, for  they  were  entirely  naked,  and  painted  with  a  variety  of  colors. 
With  some  it  was  confined  merely  to  a  part  of  the  face,  the  nose  or 
around  the  eyes ;  with  others  it  extended  to  the  whole  body,  and  gave 
them  a  wild  and  fantastic  appearance. 

Their  complexion  was  of  a  tawny  or  copper  hue,  and  they  were 
entirely  destitute  of  beards.  Their  hair  was  not  crisped,  like  the 
recently  discovered  tribes  of  the  African  coast,  under  the  same  lati- 
tude, but  straight  and  coarse,  partly  cut  short  above  the  ears,  but  some 
locks  were  left  long  behind  and  falling  upon  their  shoulders.  Their 
features,  though  obscured  and  discolored  by  paint,  were  agreeable; 
they  had  lofty  foreheads,  and  remarkably  fine  eyes.  They  were  of 
moderate  stature  and  well-shaped ;  most  of  them  appeared  to  be 
under  thirty  years  of  age ;  there  was  but  one  female  with  them,  quite 
young,  naked  like  her  companions,  and  beautifully  formed. 


IRVINO.  99 

As  Columbus  supposed  himself  to  have  landed  on  an  island  at  the 
extremity  of  India,  he  called  the  natives  by  the  general  appellation  of 
Indians,  which  was  universally  adopted  before  the  true  nature  of  his 
discovery  was  known,  and  has  since  been  extended  to  all  the  alwrij^inals 
of  the  New  AVorld.  The  islanders  were  friendly  and  gentle.  Their 
only  arms  were  lances,  hanlened  at  the  end  by  fire,  or  pointed  with  a 
flint,  or  the  teeth  or  bone  of  a  fish.  There  was  no  iron  to  be  seen, 
nor  did  they  appear  acquainted  with  its  properties ;  for  when  a  drawn 
sword  was  presented  to  them,  they  unguardedly  took  it  by  the  edge. 

Columbus  distributcxl  among  them  colored  caps,  glass  beads,  hawks' 
bells,  and  other  trifles,  such  as  the  Portuguese  were  accustomed  to  trade 
with  among  the  nations  of  the  gold-coast  of  Africa.  They  received 
them  eagerly,  hung  the  beads  round  their  necks,  and  were  wonder- 
fully pleased  with  their  finery,  and  with  the  sound  of  the  bells.  The 
Spaniards  remained  all  day  on  shore,  refreshing  themselves  after  their 
anxious  voyage  amidst  the  beautiful  groves  of  the  island,  and  returned 
on  board  late  in  the  evening,  delighted  with  all  they  had  seen. 

On  the  following  morning,  at  break  of  day,  the  shore  was  thronged 
with  the  natives ;  some  swam  off  to  the  ships,  others  came  in  light 
Iwrks,  which  they  called  canoes,  formetl  of  a  single  tree,  hollowed,  and 
capable  of  holding  from  one  man  up  to  the  number  of  forty  or  fifty. 
These  they  managed  dextrously  with  paddles,  and,  if  overturned, 
swam  about  in  the  water  with  perfect  unconcern,  as  if  in  their  natural 
element,  righting  their  canoes  with  great  facility,  and  baling  them 
with  calabashes. 

They  were  eager  to  procure  more  toys  and  trinkets,  not,  apparently, 
from  any  idea  of  their  intrinsic  value,  but  because  everything  from  the 
hands  of  the  strangers  possessed  a  supernatural  virtue  in  their  eyes, 
as  having  been  brought  from  heaven  ;  they  even  picked  up  fragments 
of  glass  and  earthenware  as  valuable  prizes.  They  had  but  few  ob- 
jects to  offer  in  return,  except  parrots,  of  which  great  numl)ers  wer^ 
domesticated  among  them,  and  cotton  yarn,  of  which  they  had  abun- 
dance, and  would  exchange  large  balls  of  five  and  twenty  pounds' 
weight  for  the  merest  trifle. 

They  brought  also  cakes  of  a  kind  of  breatl  called  cassava,  which 
constituted  a  principal  part  of  their  food,  and  was  afterwards  an  im- 
portant article  of  provisions  with  the  Spaniards.  It  was  formed  from 
a  gn^t  root  called  yuca,  which  they  cultivated  in  fields.  This  they 
cut  into  small  morsels,  which  they  grated  or  scraped,  and  strained  in 


100  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

a  press,  making  a  broad,  thin  cake,  which  was  afu^rwards  dried  hard, 
and  would  keep  for  a  long  time,  being  steeped  in  water  when  eaten. 
It  was  insipid,  but  nourishing,  though  the  water  strained  from  it  in 
the  preparation  was  a  deadly  poison.  There  was  another  kind  of 
yucA  destitute  of  this  poisonous  quality,  which  was  eaten  in  the  root, 
either  boiled  or  roasted. 

The  avarice  of  the  discoverers  was  quickly  excited  by  the  sight  of 
small  ornaments  of  gold,  worn  by  some  of  the  natives  in  their  noses. 
These  the  latter  gladly  exchanged  for  glass  beads  and  hawks'  bells ; 
and  both  parties  exulted  in  the  bargain,  no  doubt  admiring  each 
other's  simplicity.  As  gold,  however,  was  an  object  of  royal  monop- 
oly in  all  enterprises  of  discovery,  Columbus  forbade  any  traffic  in  it 
without  his  express  sanction ;  and  he  put  the  same  prohibition  on  the 
traffic  for  cotton,  reserving  to  the  crown  all  trade  for  it,  wherever  it 
should  be  found  in  any  quantity. 

He  inquired  of  the  natives  where  this  gold  was  procured.  They 
answered  him  by  signs,  pointing  to  the  south,  where,  he  understood 
them,  dwelt  a  king  of  such  wealth  that  he  was  served  in  vessels  of 
wrought  gold.  He  understood,  also,  that  there  was  land  to  the 
south,  the  southwest,  and  the  northwest ;  and  that  the  people  from 
the  last- mentioned  quarter  frequently  proceeded  to  the  southwest  in 
quest  of  gold  and  precious  stones,  making  in  their  way  descents  upon 
the  islands,  and  carrying  off  the  inhabitants.  Several  of  the  natives 
showed  him  scars  of  wounds  received  in  battles  with  these  invaders. 
It  is  evident  that  a  great  part  of  this  fancied  intelligence  was  self- 
delusion  on  the  part  of  Columbus ;  for  he  was  under  a  spell  of  the 
imagination,  which  gave  its  own  shapes  and  colors  to  every  object. 

He  was  persuaded  that  he  had  arrived  among  the  islands  de- 
scribed by  Marco  Polo,*  as  lying  opposite  Cathay,  in  the  Chinese 
Sea,  and  he  construed  everything  to  accord  with  the  account  given  of 
those  opulent  regions.  Thus  the  enemies  which  the  natives  spoke  of 
as  coming  from  the  northwest  he  concluded  to  be  the  people  of  the 
mainland  of  Asia,  the  subjects  of  the  great  Khan  of  Tartary,  Who 
were  represented  by  the  Venetian  traveler  as  accustomed  to  make 
war  upon  the  islands,  and  to  enslave  their  inhabitants.  The  country 
to  the  south,  abounding  in  gold,  could  be  no  other  than  the  famous 
island  of  Cipango ;  and  the  king,  who  was  served  out  of  vessels  of 

*  Marco  Polo.    A  renowned  Venetian  traveler,  born  abont  1252.    He  was  the  first  European 
who  entered  China,  or  made  any  extended  journey  into  Central  Asia. 


IRVING.  101 

ifold,  must  be  the  monarch  whose  magnificent  city  and  gorgeous 
l)ilair,  covered  with  pUites  of  gold,  had  been  extolled  in  such  splendid 
icrius  by  Marco  Polo. 

The  island  where  Columbus  had  thus,  for  the  first  time,  set  his 
foot  upon  the  New  World,  was  called  by  the  natives  Guanahane.  It 
still  rt-tains  the  name  of  San  Salvador,  which  he  gave  to  it,  though 
calU'd,  by  the  English,  Cat  Island.  The  light  which  he  had  seen  the 
evening  previous  to  his  making  land  may  have  been  on  Watling's 
Island,  which  lies  a  few  leagues  to  the  .east.  San  Salvador  is  one  of 
tlie  great  cluster  of  the  Lucayos  or  Bahama  Islands,  which  stretch 
southeast  and  northwest,  from  the  coast  of  Florida  to  Hispaniola, 
covering  the  northern  coast  of  Cuba. 

THE  RETUEN  OF  COLUMBUS. 

After  a  brief  interval,  the  sovereigns  requested  of  Columbus  a 
recital  of  his  adventures.  His  manner  was  sedate  and  dignified,  but 
warmed  by  the  glow  of  natural  enthusiasm.  He  enumerated  the  sev- 
eral islands  he  had  visited,  expatiated  on  the  temperate  character  of 
the  climate,  and  the  capacity  of  the  soil  for  every  variety  of  produc- 
tion, appealing  to  the  samples  imported  by  him  as  evidence  of  their 
natural  productiveness.  He  dwelt  more  at  large  on  the  precious 
metals  to  be  found  in  these  islands,  which  he  inferred  less  from  the 
specimens  actually  obtained  than  from  the  uniform  testimony  of  the 
natives  to  their  abundance  in  the  unexplored  regions  of  the  inte- 
rior. Lastly,  he  pointed  out  the  wide  scope  afforded  to  Christian 
zeal  in  the  illumination  of  a  race  of  men  whose  minds,  far  from  being 
wedded  to  any  system  of  idolatry,  were  prepared  by  their  extreme 
simplicity  for  the  reception  of  pure  and  uncorrupted  doctrine.  The 
la-t  consideration  touched  lsal)ella's  heart  most  sensibly ;  and  the 
^^llw^•  audience,  kindhrd  with  various  emotions  by  the  speaker's  elo- 
quence, filled  up  the  perspective  with  the  gorgeous  coloring  of  their 
own  fancies,  as  ambition  or  avarice  or  devotional  feeling  predomi- 
nated in  their  bosoms.  When  Columbus  ceased,  the  king  and  queen, 
to.r(  tlier  with  all  present,  prostrated  themselves  on  their  knees  in 
LMiti  fill  thanksgivings,  while  the  solemn  strains  of  the  Te  Deum  were 
|K)ure<l  forth  by  the  choir  of  the  royal  chapel,  as  in  commemoration  of 
some  glorious  victory. 


}0'1  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

BYRON. 

1788- 1824. 

Geokoe  GoEOOif.  Lord  Byron,  was  bom  in  1788  and  died  in  1834.  In  youth  he  was 
preoockms,  manifeating  remarkable  intellrctual  power,  but  giving  evidence  also  of  a  wild  and 
tingorenwble  temper.  Leaving  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  he  prepared 
a  volume  of  poems  for  publication,  which,  under  the  title  of  Hourt  of  Idleness,  was  severely 
rtdicnled  by  the  Edinburgh  Review.  A  year  later  appeared  Byron's  reply,  Englith  Bmrdt  and 
Scotch  Rniewert,  one  of  the  most  powerful  and  scorching  satires  ever  written.  Raving 
traveled  for  two  years  on  the  Continent,  Byron  returned  to  England,  and  in  1812  published 
the  first  two  cantos  of  Child*  Harold,  which  is  generally  esteemed  his  greatest  work.  In  1816 
he  left  EngUnd,  which  he  declared  he  would  never  revisit  He  spent  some  time  at  Geneva, 
with  literary  friends,  and  then  settled  himself  in  Italy,  where  he  wrote  Manfred,  the  conclud- 
ing canto  of  Childe  Harold,  Maxeppa,  and  the  first  part  of  Don  Juan.  In  1830  he  was 
•awdated  with  Shelley  and  Leigh  Hunt  in  the  publication  of  a  periodical  called  The  Liberal, 
in  which  The  Vuion  of  Judgment  was  first  printed.  In  1823  he  went  to  Greece,  where  he 
intended  to  aid  the  Greeks  in  their  resistance  to  Turkish  oppression.  But  his  military  career 
was  brief;  he  was  seised  with  epilepsy,  and,  rheumatic  fever  ensuing,  he  died  April  19,  1821 
Byron's  character  presents  one  vt  the  most  interesting  studies  to  be  found  in  literary  liistorv 
As  a  man,  we  most  censure  even  while  we  pity  him ;  as  a  poet,  he  claims  our  fervent  ad- 
adration.  His  poems  are  marvels  ot  energy  and  spirit,  glittering  with  poetical  beauties  and 
qNgrammatie  expressions  that  have  become  "  household  words."  But  a  profound  morbidness 
pervades  them,  and  the  thoughtful  reader  feels  himself,  as  he  ponders  their  passionate, 
defiant,  almost  savage  philosophy,  to  be  in  the  presence  of  an  unhealthy  mind.  His  poems 
possess  a  peculiar  fiucination  for  the  young ;  but  their  charms  seem  more  hollow  and  unreal 
to  the  eye  of  age  and  experience.  BvTon's  life  was  a  series  of  mistakes ;  and,  great  poet 
though  he  was,  his  hours  of  happiness  were,  no  douht.  fewer  than  those  of  the  most  illiterate 
peasant. 

THE    SHIPWEECK. 

There  were  two  fathers  in  this  ghastly  crew. 
And  with  them  their  two  sons,  of  whom  the  one 

Was  more  robust  and  hardy  to  the  view ; 
But  he  died  early  :  and  when  he  was  gone. 

His  nearest  messmate  told  his  sire,  who  threw 

One  glance  on  him,  and  said,  "  Heaven's  will  be  done ! 

I  can  do  nothing  " ;  and  he  saw  him  thrown 

Into  the  deep,  without  a  tear  or  groan. 

The  other  father  had  a  weaklier  child, 

Of  a  soft  cheek,  and  aspect  delicate ; 
But  the  boy  bore  up  long,  and  with  a  mild 

And  patient  spirit  held  aloof  his  fate  : 
Little  he  said,  and  now  and  then  he  smiled, 

As  if  to  win  a  part  from  off  the  weight 


BY RON. 

He  saw  increasing  on  his  father's  heart, 

With  the  deep,  deadly  thought,  that  they  must  part. 

And  o'er  him  bent  his  sire,  and  never  raised 
His  eyes  from  off  his  face,  but  wiped  the  foam 

From  his  pale  lips,  and  ever  on  him  gazed : 

And  when  the  wished-for  shower  at  length  was  come. 

And  the  boy's  eyes,  which  the  dull  film  half  glazed. 
Brightened,  and  for  a  moment  seemed  to  roam,     ^ 

He  squeezed  from  out  a  rag  some  drops  of  rain 

Into  his  dying  child's  mouth  ;  but  in  vain  ! 

The  boy  expired  :  the  father  held  the  clay, 
And  looked  upon  it  long ;  and  when  at  last 

Death  left  no  doubt,  and  the  dead  burden  lay 
Stiff  on  his  heart,  and  pulse  and  hope  were  past, 

He  watched  it  wistfully  until  away 

'T  was  borne  by  the  rude  wave  wherein  't  was  cast ; 

Then  he  himself  sunk  down,  all  dumb  and  shivering, 

And  gave  no  sign  of  life,  save  his  limbs  quivering. 

'T  was  twilight,  for  the  sunless  day  went  down 

Over  the  waste  of  waters  ;  like  a  veil 
Which,  if  withdrawn,  would  but  disclose  the  frown 

Of  one  whose  hate  is  masked  but  to  assail. 
Thus  to  their  hopeless  eyes  the  night  was  shown. 

And  grimly  darkled  o'er  their  faces  pale, 
And  the  dim,  desolate  deep ;  twelve  days  had  Fear 
Been  their  familiar,  and  now  Death  was  here. 

Then  rose  from  sea  to  sky  the  wild  farewell,  — 

Then  shrieked  the  timid,  and  stood  still  the  brave,  — 

Then  some  leaped  overljoard  with  dreadful  yell, 
As  eager  to  anticipate  their  grave; 

And  the  sea  yawned  around  her,  like  a  hell. 

And  down  she  sucked  with  her  the  whirling  wave. 

Like  one  who  grapples  with  his  enemy. 

And  strives  to  stransrle  him  l)efore  he  die. 


103 


104  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

And  first  one  universal  shriek  there  rushed. 
Louder  than  the  loud  ocean,  —  like  a  crash 

Of  echoing:  thunder;  and  then  all  was  hushed, 
Save  the  wdd  wind  and  the  remorseless  dash 

Of  billows ;  but  at  intervals  there  gushed, 
Accompanied  by  a  convulsive  splash, 

A  solitary-  shriek,  the  bubbling  cry 

Of  some  strong  swininur  in  his  agony. 

MODEBN    GREECE. 

Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave ! 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain  cave 
Was  freedom's  home  or  glory's  grave ! 
Shrine  of  the  mighty  !  can  it  be, 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee  ? 
Approach,  thou  craven  croucliing  slave : 

Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylae  ?  ♦ 
These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave, 

O  servile  offspring  of  the  free,  — 

Pronounce  what  sea,  w  hat  shore  is  this  ? 

The  gidf,  the  rock  of  Salamis  !  f 

These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown. 

Arise  and  make  again  your  own ; 

Snatch  from  the  ashes  of  your  sires 

The  embers  of  their  former  fires ; 

And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 

Will  add  to  theirs  a  name  of  fear, 

Tliat  tyranny  shall  quake  to  hear. 

And  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fame, 

They  too  will  rather  die  than  shame  ; 

For  freedom's  battle  once  l)egun. 

Bequeathed  by  bleeding  sire  to  son. 

Though  baffled  oft,  is  ever  won. 

*  Thermoptl*.  a  mountain  defile  in  Greece  where  Leonidas  (480  b.  c),  at  the  head  of  three 
hundred  Spartans  withstood  the  whole  force  of  the  Persian  army  for  three  days.  More  than 
twenty  thousand  Persians  perished  in  the  memorable  battle,  and  only  one  Greek  survived.  This 
battle  is  supposed  to  have  commemorated  the  finest  instance  of  heroic  bravery  on  record. 

+  Salamis.  Refers  to  a  celebrated  naval  battle  between  the  Greeks  and  the  Persians,  where 
the  latter  were  disastrously  defeated. 


BYRON.  105 


Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page, 
Attest  it  many  a  deathless  age ! 
While  kings,  in  dusty  darkness  hid. 
Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid  ; 
Thy  heroes,  though  the  general  doom 
Hath  swept  the  column  from  their  tomb, 
A  mightier  monument  command,  — 
The  mountains  of  their  native  land  ! 
There  points  thy  muse  to  stranger's  eye 
The  graves  of  those  that  cannot  die. 
'T  were  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  trace, 
Each  step  from  splendor  to  disgrace ; 
Enough,  —  no  foreign  foe  could  quell 
Thy  soul,  tdl  from  itself  it  fell ; 
Yes  !  self-al)asement  paved  the  way 
To  villain-bonds  and  despot  sway. 


BOME. 

0  Rome  !  my  country  !  city  of  the  soul ! 
Tlie  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee, 
Lone  mother  of  dead  empires  !  and  control 
In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 
What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance  ?     Come  and  se< 
Tlie  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  ye  1 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day  — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

The  Niobe  of  nations !  there  she  stands, 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe  ; 
An  empty  urn  within  her  withered  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scattered  long  ago ; 
The  Scipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now ; 
The  very  sepulchers  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers  ;  dost  thou  flow. 
Old  Tiber !  through  a  marble  wilderness  ? 
Jlise,  with  thy  yeUow  waves,  and  mantle  her  distress. 
6* 


Utj  »  A  1  in  Al;  1    -     1.1  1  l.i;  Ml'i      Kl.ADI.K. 

The  Goth,  the  (  hri-tiaii.  ■riiiic  War.  T'lood,  anil  Fire, 
Have  (leal  1  u]>()ii  ilif  sfvcii-liilli-cl  ciix  "s  pride; 
She  saw  her  ulono  ^lar  hy  star  cxjjin'. 
And  up  tho  sleep  barbarian  ni()iiar(li>  ride, 
Wlicr.'  the  car  cliiidH'*!  the  ('aj)ii()l  :    tar  and  wide 
'l'ciiij)lf  ami  tuucr  wmi  dowii.  imi-  Id't  a  site ; 
('haos  of  rniiis  I   who  shall  trace  the  void. 
O'er  tlu-  dim  iVanfincnts  ra>t  a  lunar  li'j;ht. 
And  say,  "  here  wa-      i  i-      wh.  n  all  i>  doubly  night? 

The  double  uiirlit  of  aire-,  and  of  lier, 
NiLrlils  dauLrlitcr.  lunioranee.  hath  wrapt  and  wrap 
All  roinid  n>  ;   we  l»nt  le.l  our  way  to  err: 
The  ocean  hath  it-  chart,  the  .-tars  their  map, 
And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap ; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stund)linLr  o'er  recolleetioiis  ;   now  we  clap 
Our  haiuU.  and  ei-y    '  Kureka  !  "   it  is  clear, — 
^Vhen  but  soiue  taUe  miraire  of  ruin  rises  near. 

Alas!  the  lofty  eiiy  !   and  ala<i ! 
The  trebly  huiulred  Iriuniphs  I   and  the  day 
"When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edire  surpass 
The  comjueror's  sword  in  bearintr  l^mie  away  ! 
Alas,  for  TuUy's  voice,  and  \  ir^  1  -  1 1\. 
And  T.ivy's  ])ietur('d  page!  —  but  these  shall  be 
Her  resurreetion  ;  all  beside,  —  decay. 
Alas  for  Earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Ex)me  was  fi-ee! 

THE    OCEAN. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean, —  roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  niin,  —  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore ;  —  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  min. 


BYRON.  107 

He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths,  —  thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him,  —  thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  tliee ;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spuming  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth  :  —  there  let  him  lay. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake. 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war ; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and  as  the  snowy  flake 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar.* 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee,  — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they  ? 
Thy  waters  washed  them  power  while  they  were  free. 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts ;  — not  so  thou  ;  — 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play,  — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow,  — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  roUest  now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 

Glasses  itself  in  tempests ;  in  all  time, 

Calm  or  conviUsed,  —  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm. 

Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 

Dark-heaving ;  —  boundless,  endless,  and  sublime,  — 

Thia  line  re£en  to  two  hUtorirtl  ural  batUn  io  wliieh  tbe  Enslith  were  rirtorious. 
6» 


lU5 


CATllCART  S    LITEIIARY    JiEADER. 

The  ima^e  of  Eternity  —  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made  :  each  zone 
Obeys  thee  :  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  l)e 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  oiiwaixl :  from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers,  —  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  fresheniu*^  sea 
Made  them  a  terror,  —  't  was  a  pleasing  fear. 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee. 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane,  —  as  I  do  here. 

I  SAW  THEE  WEEP. 

I  SAW  thee  weep,  —  the  big  bright  tear 

Came  o'er  that  eye  of  blue  ; 
And  then  methouglit  it  did  appear 

A  violet  dropping  dew  ; 
I  saw  thee  smile,  —  the  sapphire's  blaze 

Beside  thee  ceased  to  shine ; 
It  could  not  match  the  living  rays 

That  filled  that  glance  of  thine. 

As  clouds  from  yonder  sun  receive 

A  deep  and  mellow  dye. 
Which  scarce  the  shade  of  coming  eve 

Can  banish  from  the  sky. 
Those  smiles  unto  the  moodiest  mind 

Their  own  pure  joy  impart ; 
Their  sunshine  leaves  a  glow  behind 

That  lio^htens  o'er  the  heart. 


COOPEE.  109 

COOPER. 
1789- 1851. 

Jam M  Fe!«iifOKB  Coopcm,  vho  may  be  called  the  first,  and  perhaps  the  most  popular,  of 
American  novcluts,  was  bom  in  New  Jersey  in  I7b9  and  died  at  Coopcrstown,  New  York,  in  18&1. 
1  III-  t>e*t  of  Ills  works  arc  Tlte  Spy,  Tlu  Prairie,  The  Pilot,  and  The  Last  of  the  Mohieatu.  Ilia 
I'niiu-  ii  owing  mainly  to  the  excellence  of  his  delineation  of  Indian  life  and  of  maritime  adven- 
tiirt-.  In  these  respecta  no  writer  has  yet  excelled  him.  His  style  is  peculiarly  interesting, 
bring  highly  dramatic,  and  pure  and  scholarly  in  construction.  No  American  writer  has  re- 
ceived more  cordial  treatment  at  the  hands  of  foreign  critics;  Victor  Hugo  went  so  £ar  as  to 
P  '    '  'lian  Scott;  the  London  Athenteum  called  hiui  "  the  most  origi- 

•  luci'd  "  ;  and  tin-  Revue  de  Paris  said :  "  Who  is  there  writing 
!     ;  ,  >,  if  not  of  him,  of  whom  it  can  be  said  that  he  has  a  genius  of 

the  hr»t  order  r  "  These  panegyrics  will  hardly  be  accepted  at  their  full  value  by  literary  authori- 
ty of  the  present  day,  when  American  literature  is  far  stronger  and  richer  tlian  at  their  date. 
Hut  Mr  Co  ip.r's  title  to  a  high,  if  not  tht*  first,  place  among  our  writers,  is  too  strong  to  l>e 
u:i;i'i.n  .1  Iti  ih  assignment  of  liis  rank  he  should  have  the  bent-fuof  the  consderatwn  tltat  he 
w  as  a  pioii-cr  in  .1  specialty  of  authorship,  before  his  time  hardly  appn>achcd  by  American  writers, 
and  which  for  many  years  he  occupied  and  honored  without  a  rival..  He  was  intensely  patri- 
ntir,  nnd  resented  with  spirited  indignation  the  aasaults  of  British  writers  upon  American  char- 
nd  customs.  Somewhat  reserved  and  formal  in  manner,  he  made  few  warm  personal 
but  his  probity  nnd  high  moral  excellence  commanded  universal  respect.  Our  first  ex- 
.....;  .^  from  The  Prairie,  a  story  of  Indian  life ;  the  second  is  from  The  Pilot,  the  best  of  Mr. 
Cooper's  sea  novels. 

THE  INDIAN  ADOPTION. 

A  LOW,  feeble,  and  hollow  voice  wtis  heard  rising  on  the  ear,  as  if 
it  rolled  from  the  inmost  cavities  of  the  human  chest,  and  gathered 
strength  and  ienergy  as  it  issued  into  the  air.  A  solemn  stillness 
followed  the  sounds,  and  then  the  lips  of  the  agetl  man  were  first 
seen  to  move. 

"The  day  of  Le  Balafre  is  near  its  end,"  were  the  firet  words  that 
were  distinctly  audible.  "  He  is  like  a  buffalo  on  whom  the  hair  will 
grow  no  longer.  He  will  soon  be  ready  to  leive  his  lodge  to  go  in 
search  of  another  that  is  far  from  the  villages  of  the  Sionxes ;  there- 
fore  what  he  has  to  say  concerns  not  him,  but  those  he  leaves  behind 
him.  His  words  are  like  the  fruit  on  the  tree,  ripe  and  fit  to  be  given 
to  chiefs. 

•  Many  snows  have  fallen  since  Le  Balafrd  has  been  found  on  the 
war-path.  His  blood  has  In'en  very  hot,  but  it  has  had  time  to  cool. 
The  Wahcoiulah  gives  him  dnuims  of  war  no  longer;  he  sees  that  it 
is  better  to  live  in  peace. 

'*  My  brothers,  one  foot  is  turned  to  the  happy  hunting-grounds, 
the  other  will  soon  follow,  and  then  an  old  chief  will  be  seen  lookiijg 


1  1  0  CATUCART's    LITEIIAKY    EEADEK. 

for  the  prints  of  his  father's  moccasins,  that  be  may  make  no  mistakt 
but  be  sure  to  come  before  the  Master  of  Life  by  the  same  path  th 
so  many  good  Indians  have  already  traveled.     But  who  will  follow 
Le  Balafre   has  no  son.     His  oldest  h:;s  ridden  too   many  Pawiin 
horses  ;  the  bones  of  the  youngest  have  been  gnawed  by  Konza  dogs. 
Le  Balafre  has  come  to  look  for  a  young  arm  on  which  he  may  lean, 
and  to  find  a  son,  that  when  he  is  gone  liis  lodge  may  not  be  empt\ 
Tdchechana,  the  skipping  fawn  of  the  Tetons,  is  too  weak  to  prop  :. 
warrior  who  is  old.     She  looks  before  her  and  not  backwards.     Hci 
mind  is  in  the  lodge  of  her  husl)and." 

The  enunciation  of  the  veteran  warrior  had  been  calm,  but  distinct 
and  decided.  His  declaration  was  received  in  silence ;  and  thouirh 
several  of  the  chiefs  who  were  in  the  counsels  of  Mahtoree  turned 
their  eyes  on  their  leader,  none  presumed  to  oppose  so  aged  and  ven- 
erated a  brave  in  a  resolution  that  was  strictly  in  conformity  to  the 
usages  of  the  nation.  The  Teton  himself  was  content  to  await  the 
result  with  seeming  composure,  though  the  gleams  of  ferocity  that 
played  about  his  eye  occasionally  betr.iyed  the  nature  of  those  feelings 
with  which  he  witnessed  a  procedurv;  that  was  likely  to  rob  him  of 
that  one  of  all  his  intended  victims  whom  he  most  hated. 

In  the  mean  time  Le  Balafre  movetl  with  a  slow  and  painful  step 
towanls  the  captives.  He  stoppcnl  before  the  person  of  Hard-Heart, 
whose  faultless  fonn,  unchanged  eye,  and  lofty  mien  he  contemplated 
with  high  satisfaction.  Then  making  a  gesture  of  authority,  he  waited 
until  his  order  had  been  obeyed,  and  the  youth  was  released  from  the 
post  and  his  bonds  by  the  same  blow  of  the  knife.  When  the  young 
warrior  was  led  nearer  to  his  dimmed  and  failing  sight  the  examina- 
tion was  renewed  with  strictness  of  scnitiny. 

"  It  is  good,*'  the  wary  veteran  murmured,  when  he  found  that  all 
his  skill  in  the  requisites  of  a  brave  coidd  detect  no  blemish;  "this  is 
a  leaping  panther.     "Does  my  son  speak  with  the  tongue  of  a  Teton?" 

The  intelligence  which  lighted  the  eyes  of  the  captive  betrayed  how 
well  he  understood  the  question,  but  still  he  was  far  too  haughty 
to  comminiicate  his  ideas  through  the  medium  of  a  language  that 
belonged  to  a  hostile  people.  Some  of  the  surrounding  warriors 
explained  to  the  old  chief  that  the  captive  was  a  Pawnee-Loup. 

"  My  son  opened  his  eyes  on  the  '  waters  of  the  wolves,' "  said  Le 
Balafre,  in  the  language  of  that  nation,  "  but  he  will  shut  them  in  the 
bend  of  the  *  river  with  a  troubled  stream.'     He  was  born  a  Pawnee, 


COOPER.  Ill 

but  he  will  die  a  Dahcotah.  Look  at  me.  1  am  a  sycamore  that 
oace  covered  many  with  my  shadow.  The  leaves  are  fallen  and  the 
bnmchcs  begin  to  drop.  But  a  single  sucker  is  springing  from  my 
foots ;  it  is  a  little  vine,  and  it  winds  itself  about  a  tree  that  is  green. 
I  have  long  looked  for  one  fit  to  grow  by  my  side.  Now  have  E 
found  him.  Le  Balufre  is  no  longer  without  a  son  ;  his  name  will 
not  be  forgotten  when  he  is  gone.  Men  of  the  Tetons  I  I  take  this 
youth  into  my  lodge." 

No  one  was  bold  enough  to  dispute  a  right  that  had  so  often  beeu 
exercised  by  warriors  far  inferior  to  the  present  speaker,  and  the 
adoption  was  listened  to  in  grave  and  respectful  silence.  Le  Balafre 
took  his  intended  son  by  the  arm,  and  leading  him  into  the  very 
centre  of  the  circle,  he  stt;pped  aside  with  an  air  of  triumph  in  onlcr 
that  the  spectators  might  approve  of  his  choice.  Mahtoree  betrayed 
no  evidence  of  his  intentions,  but  rather  seemed  to  await  a  moment 
better  suited  to  the  cnifty  policy  of  his  character.  The  more  experi- 
enced and  sjigacious  chiefs  distinctly  foresaw  the  utter  impossibility 
of  two  partisans  so  renowned,  so  hostile,  and  who  had  so  long  been 
rivals  in  fame,  as  their  prisoner  and  their  native  leader,  existing 
amicably  in  the  same  tribe.  Still  the  character  of  Le  Balafre  was  so 
imposing,  and  the  custom  to  which  he  had  resorted  so  sacred,  that 
none  dared  to  lift  a  voice  in  opposition  to  the  measure.  They 
watched  the  result  with  increijsiiig  interest,  but  with  a  cohlness  of 
lemeanor  that  concealed  the  nature  of  their  inquietude.  From  this 
>tate  of  eml)arrdssment  the  tribe  was  relieved  by  the  decision  of  the 
one  most  interested  in  the  success  of  the  aged  chief's  designs. 

During  the  whole  of  the  foregoing  scene,  it  would  have  l)een  diffi- 
cult to  have  tracetl  a  single  distinct  emotion  in  the  lineaments  of  the 
captive.  He  had  heanl  his  release  proclaimed,  with  the  same  indif- 
ference as  the  order  to  bind  him  to  the  stake.  But  now  that  the 
moment  had  arrived  when  it  Wcame  necessary  to  make  his  election, 
he  spoke  in  a  way  to  prove  that  the  fortitude  which  had  brought  him 
sfi  distinguished  a  name  had  in  no  de^ee  deserted  him. 

My  father  is  very  old,  but  he  has  not  yet  looked  upon  every- 
tmiig."  said  Hnrd-Heart,  in  a  voice  so  clear  as  to  be  heanl  by  all 
presrnt.  "  He  has  never  seen  a  buffalo  change  to  a  bat ;  he  will 
nevrr  see  a  Pawnee  bt»come  a  Sioux  !  " 

There  w««  a  suddenness  and  yet  a  calmness  in  the  manner  of  deliv- 
ering this  decision  which  assured  most  of  the  auditors  tliaf   it   \\   ^ 


1  I  .:  CATIICAKT  S    LITERARY    READER. 

unalterable.  The  heart  of  Le  Balafre,  however,  was  yearning  towards 
the  youth,  and  the  fondness  of  age  was  not  so  readily  repulsed.  Ilc- 
proring  the  burst  of  admiration  and  triumph  to  which  the  boldness  of 
the  declaration  and  the  freshened  hopes  of  revenge  had  given  rise,  by 
turning  his  glenming  eye  around  the  band,  the  veteran  again  addressed 
his  adopted  child  as  if  his  purpose  was  not  to  be  denied. 

"It  is  well,"  he  said;  "such  are  the  words  a  brave  should  us( , 
that  the  warriors  may  see  his  heart.  The  day  has  been  when  tlh 
voice  of  Le  Balafr^  was  loudest  among  the  lodges  of  the  Konzas. 
But  the  root  of  a  white  hair  is  wisdom.  My  child  will  show  the 
Teton s  that  he  is  brave,  by  striking  their  enemies.  Men  of  tin 
Dahcotahs,  this  is  my  son  I  " 

The  Pawnee  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  stepping  in  front  of  the 
chief,  he  took  his  hard  and  wrinkled  hand  and  laid  it  with  reverence 
on  his  head,  as  if  to  acknowledge  the  extent  of  his  obligation.  Then 
recoiling  a  step,  he  raised  -^lis  person  to  its  greatest  elevation,  and 
looked  upon  the  hostile  band  by  whom  he  was  environed  with  an  air 
of  loftiness  and  disdain,  as  he  spoke  aloud  in  the  language  of  the 
Siouxes,  — 

"  Hani-Heart  has  looked  at  himself  within  and  without.  He  ha> 
thought  of  all  he  has  done  in  the  hunts  and  in  the  wars.  Everywhere 
he  is  the  same.  There  is  no  change ;  he  is  in  all  things  a  Pawnee. 
He  has  stnick  so  many  Tetons  that  he  could  never  eat  in  their  lodges. 
His  arrows  would  fly  backwards;  the  point  of  his  lance  woidd  be  on 
the  wrong  end ;  their  friends  would  weep  at  every  whoop  he  gave ; 
their  enemies  would  laugh.  Do  the  Tetons  know  a  Loup?  Let 
them  look  at  him  again.  His  head  is  painted,  his  arm  is  flesh,  his 
heart  is  rock.  When  the  Tetons  see  the  sun  come  from  the  Rocky 
Mountains  and  move  toward  the  land  of  the  Pale-faces,  the  mind  of 
Hard-Heart  will  soften  and  his  spirit  will  become  Sioux.  Until  that 
day  he  will  live  and  die  a  Pawnee." 

A  yell  of  delight,  in  which  admiration  and  ferocity  were  strangely 
mingled,  interrupted  the  speaker,  and  but  too  clearly  announced  the 
character  of  his  fate.  The  captive  waited  a  moment  for  the  commo- 
tion to  subside,  and  then  turning  again  to  Le  Balafre,  he  continued 
in  tones  conciliating  and  kind,  as  if  he  felt  the  propriety  of  softening 
his  refusal  in  a  manner  not  to  wound  the  pride  of  one  willing  to  be 
his  benefactor. 

"Let  my  father  lean  heavier  on  the  fawn  of  the  Dahcotahs,"  he 


f 


COOPEE.  113 

s;uii  .  weak  now,  but  as  her  lodge  fills  with  young  she  will 

be  stronger.  See !  "  he  added,  directing  the  eyes  of  the  other  to  the 
earnest  countenance  of  the  attentive  trapper ;  "  Hard-Heart  is  not 
without  a  gray-beard  to  show  him  the  path  to  the  blessed  prairies.  If 
he  ever  has  another  father  it  shall  be  that  just  warrior." 

Le  Balafr^  turned  away  in   disappointment  from  the  youth,  and 
approached  the  stranger  who  had  thus  anticipated  his  design. 


DEATH  OF  LONG  TOM  COFFIN. 

Lifting  his  broad  hands  high  into  the  air,  his  voice  was  heard  in 
the  tempest.  "  God's  will  be  done  with  me,"  he  cried  ;  "  1  saw  the 
first  timber  of  the  Jriel  laid,  and  shall  live  just  long  enough  to  see  it 
turn  out  of  her  bottom  ;  after  which  I  wish  to  live  no  longer."  But 
his  shipmates  were  far  beyond  the  sounds  of  his  voice  before  these 
were  half  uttered.  All  command  of  the  boat  was  rendered  impossi- 
ble, by  the  numbers  it  contained,  as  well  as  the  raging  of  the  surf; 
ind  as  it  rose  on  the  white  crest  of  a  wave,  Tom  saw  his  beloved  little 
craft  for  the  last  time.  It  fell  into  a  trough  of  the  sea,  and  in  a 
ffw  moments  more  its  fragments  were  ground  into  splinters  on  the 
uljoining  rocks.  The  coxswain  (Tom)  still  remained  where  he  had 
(•;ist  off  the  rope,  and  beheld  the  numerous  heads  and  arms  that  ap- 
peared rising,  at  short  intervals,  on  the  waves,  some  making  powerful 
and  well-directed  efforts  to  gain  the  sands,  that  were  l)ecoming  visible 
;is  the  tide  fell,  and  others  wildly  tossed  in  the  frantic  movements  of 
helpless  despair.  The  honest  old  seaman  gave  a  cry  of  joy  as  he  saw 
Barnstable  (the  commander  whom  Tom  had  forced  into  the  boat)  issue 
from  the  surf,  where  one  by  one  several  seamen  appeared  also,  drip- 
ping and  exhausted.  Many  others  of  the  crew  were  carried  in  a 
similar  manner  to  places  of  safety ;  though,  as  Tom  returned  to  his 
-eat  on  the  lx)W8prit,  he  could  not  conceal  from  his  relnctant  eyes 
the  lifeless  forms  that  were,  in  other  spots,  driven  against  the  rocks 
with  a  fury  that  soon  left  them  but  few  of  the  outward  vestiges  of 
humanity. 

Dillon  and  the  coxswain  were  now  the  sole  occupants  of  their 
dreadful  station.  The  former  stood,  in  a  kind  of  stupid  despair,  a 
witness  of  the  scene ;  but  as  his  cunlled  blood  l)egan  again  to  flow 
more  warmly  to  his  heart,  he  crept  close  to  the  side  of  Tom,  with  that 

u 


lit  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

sort  of  selfish  feeling  that  makes  even  hopeless  misery  more  tolerable, 
when  endured  in  participation  with  another. 

"  When  the  tide  falls,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  betrayed  the  agony 
of  fear,  though  his  words  expressed  the  renewal  of  hope,  "  we  shall  be 
able  to  walk  to  land." 

*'  There  was  One  and  only  One  to  whose  feet  the  waters  were  the 
same  as  a  diy-  deck,"  returned  the  coxswain  ;  "  and  none  but  such  as 
have  His  power  will  ever  be  able  to  walk  from  these  rocks  to  the 
sands."  The  old  seaman  paused,  and  turning  his  eyes,  which  ex- 
hibited a  mingled  expression  of  disgust  and  compassion,  on  his  com- 
panion, he  added,  with  reverence  :  "  Had  you  thought  more  of  Him  in 
fair  weather,  your  case  would  be  less  to  be  pitied  in  this  tempest." 

*'  Do  you  still  think  there  is  much  danger?  "  asked  Dillon. 

"  To  them  that  have  reason  to  fear  death.  Listen  !  Do  you  hear 
that  hollow  noise  beneath  ye  ?  "  . 

"  'T  is  the  wind  driving  by  the  vessel !  " 

"  'Tis  the  poor  thing  herself,"  said  the  affected  coxswain,  "giving 
her  last  groans.  The  water  is  breaking  upon  her  decks,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  more  the  handsomest  model  that  ever  cut  a  wave  will  be  like 
the  chips  that  fell  from  her  in  framing  !  " 

"  Why,  thei\,  did  you  remain  here  ?  "  cried  Dillon,  wildly. 

"  To  die  in  my  coffin,  if  it  should  be  the  will  of  God,"  returned 
Tom.  "  These  waves  are  to  me  what  the  land  is  to  you  ;  I  was  born 
on  them,  and  I  have  always  meant  that  they  shall  be  my  grave." 

"  But—  I  —  I,"  shrieked  Dillon,  /'  I  am  not  ready  to  die !  —  I 
cannot  die  !  —  I  will  not  die !  " 

*'  Poor  wretch  !  "  muttered  his  companion,  "  you  must  go  like  the 
rest  of  us ;  when  the  death-watch  is  called,  none  can  skulk  from  the 
muster." 

"  I  can  swim,"  Dillon  continued,  rushing  with  frantic  eagerness  to 
the  side  of  the  wreck.  "  Is  there  no  billet  of  wood,  no  rope,  that  I 
can  take  with  me  ?  " 

"  None ;  everything  has  been  cut  away,  or  carried  off  by  the  sea. 
If  you  are  about  to  strive  for  your  life,  take  with  you  a  stout  heart 
and  a  clean  conscience,  and  trust  the  rest  to  God." 

"  God  !  "  echoed  Dillon,  in  the  madness  of  his  frenzy.  "  I  know 
no  God  ;  there  is  no  God  that  knows  me !  " 

"  Peace  !  "  said  the  deep  tones  of  the  coxswain,  in  a  voice  that 
seemed  to  speak  in  the  elements  ;  "  blasphemer,  peace  !  " 


COOPER.  1  1  5 

The  luyivy  pToaninj!^,  produced  by  the  water  in  the  timl)ers  of  the 
Jrifl,  at  that  moment  added  its  impulse  to  the  ra«i^iiig  feelings  of 
Dillon,  and  he  cast  himself  headlong  into  the  sea.  The  water,  thrown 
by  the  rolling  of  the  surf  on  the  beach,  was  necessarily  returned  to 
the  ocean  in  eddies,  in  ditferetit  places  favorable  to  such  an  action  of 
the  element.  Into  the  edge  of  one  of  these  counter-currents,  that  was 
produced  by  the  very  rocks  on  which  the  schooner  lay,  and  which  the 
watermen  call  the  "  under-tow,"  Dillon  had  unknowingly  thrown  his 
person ;  and  when  the  waves  had  driven  him  a  short  distance  from 
the  wreck  he  was  met  by  a  stream  that  his  most  desperate  efforts 
could  not  overcome.  He  was  a  light  and  powerful  swimmer,  and  the 
struggle  was  hard  and  protracted.  With  the  shore  immediately  before 
his  eyes,  and  at  no  great  distance,  he  was  led,  as  by  a  false  phantom, 
to  continue  his  efforts,  although  they  did  not  advance  him  a  foot. 
The  old  seaman,  who  at  first  had  watched  his  motions  with  careless 
indifference,  understood  the  danger  of  his  situation  at  a  glance,  and, 
forgetful  of  his  own  fate,  he  shouted  aloud,  in  a  voice  that  was  driven 
over  the  struggling  victim  to  the  ears  of  his  shipmatt^s  on  the  sands:  — 

"  Sheer  to  port,  and  clear  the  under-tow !  Sheer  to  the  south- 
ward !  " 

Dillon  heard  the  sounds,  but  his  faculties  were  too  much  obscured 
by  terror  to  distinguish  their  object ;  he,  however,  blindly  yielded  to 
the  call,  and  gradually  changed  his  direction  until  his  face  was  once 
more  turned  towards  the  vessel.  Tom  looked  around  him  for  a  rope, 
but  all  had  gone  over  with  the  spars,  or  been  swept  away  by  the  waves. 
At  this  moment  of  disappointment  his  eyes  met  those  of  the  desperate 
Dillon.  Calm  and  inured  to  horrors  as  was  the  veteran  seaman,  he 
involuntarily  passed  his  hand  before  his  brow  to  exclude  the  look  of 
despair  he  encountered ;  and  when,  a  moment  afterwards,  he  removed 
the  rigid  member,  he  l)eheld  the  sinking  form  of  the  victim  as  it 
gradually  settled  in  the  ocean,  still  struggling  with  regular  but  impo- 
tent strokes  of  the  arms  and  feet  to  gain  the  wreck,  and  to  preserve 
an  existence  that  had  been  so  much  abused  in  its  hour  of  allotted 
probation.  "  He  will  soon  meet  his  God,  and  learn  that  his  Grod 
knows  him  !  "  murmured  the  coxswain  to  himself.  As  he  yet  spoke, 
the  wreck  of  the  /iriel  yielded  to  an  overwhelming  sea,  and  after  a 
universal  shudder,  her  timlK*rs  and  planks  gave  way,  and  were  swept 
towards  the  cliffs,  bearing  the  body  of  the  simple-hearted  coxswain 
amonjT  the  ruins. 


ll(i  (athcaiit'.s  literary  reader. 

BRYANT. 

1794- 

WiLLiAM  CuLLEN  Bktaitt,  who  may  be  said  to  share  with  Longfellow  the  first  place  in  the  list 
of  American  poets,  was  bom  in  Cummin^ton,  Massachusetts,  in  1794.  His  precocity  was  remark- 
able. At  the  age  of  ten  he  made  translations  from  the  Latin  poets,  which  were  published,  and 
three  years  later,  wrote  T%e  Bimhargo,  a  satirical  poem  of  great  merit.  He  studied  law,  and 
practiced  that  profession  for  some  time  in  Great  Harrington,  Massachusetts.  His  early  produc- 
tions were  regarded  as  the  work  of  a  precocious  genius  which  would  surely  spend  itself  in  these 
premature  efforts;  but  the  appearance  of  Tkanatoptit,  which  was  written  in  his  nineteenth  year, 
and  was  published  in  the  North  Auurican  Review,  proved  conclusively  that  he  was  not  a  men- 
youthful  prodigy.  In  1825  he  removed  to  New  York,  and,  with  a  partner,  established  the  Afi 
I'ork  Menew  and  Atkenmum  Magazine,  to  which  he  contributed  some  of  his  best  poems.  The 
next  year  he  became  editor  of  the  Erenimg  Foat,  and  still  holds  that  pUce.  While  he  is  best 
known  by  hit  poems,  Mr.  Bryant  is  considered  by  the  best  authorities  one  of  the  finest  prose 
writer*  in  the  country.  In  England  his  poetry  is  held  in  high  esteem ;  Thanatoptis,  To  a  Hater 
Foicl,  Green  Riter,  etc.,  have  received  earnest  praise  from  the  leading  English  critics.  Mr. 
Bryant  is  distinctively  a  student  and  interpreter  of  Nature  ;  all  her  aspects  and  voices  are  famil- 
iar to  him,  and  are  reproduced  in  his  poetry  with  a  solemn  and  ennobling  beauty  which  has 
never  been  attained  by  any  other  American  poet  In  many  respects  his  verse  resembles  Words- 
worth's-, but  its  spirit  is  less  introspective,  and  appeals  more  directly  to  the  common  under- 
standing. Another  striking  characteristic  of  Mr.  Bryant's  poetry  is  its  lofty  moral  tone,  which  ia 
the  eloquence  of  a  great  intellect  warmed  and  controlled  by  high  and  pure  impulses. 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWEBS. 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows  brown  and  sear. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove  the  withered  leaves  lie  dead  ; 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread. 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs  the  jay. 

And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through  all  the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that  lately  sprung  and 

stood 
In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood  ? 
Alas  !  they  all  are  in  their  graves  ;  the  gentle  race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie ;  but  the  cold  November  rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago, 

And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer's  glow  ; 

But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood, 


BRYANT.  117 

Ami  the  yellow  sunflower  by  the  brook  in  autumn  beauty  stood, 

rill  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the  plague  on 

men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone  from  upland,  glade,  and 

glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still  such  days  will 

come, 
Fo  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter  home ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the  trees  are 

still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 
Tlie  south-wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance  late  he  bore. 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty  died, 

riie  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my  side. 

in  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the  forests  cast  the  leaf, 

And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so  brief; 

Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that  young  friend  of  ours, 

^o  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the  flowers. 

THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty  ;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 
And  gentle  sympathy  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stem  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house. 
Make  thee  to  shudder  and  grow  sick  at  heart. 
Go  forth  unto  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around  — 


118  cathcart's  ltteraky  reader. 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 

Comes  a  still  voice  :  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid  with  many  tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements ; 

To  l)e  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thy  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  —  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world,  —  with  kings, 
The  powerfid  of  the  earth,  —  the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past. 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulcher.     The  hills. 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun ;  the  vales, 
Stn*tching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods  ;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks, 
That  make  the  meadows  green  ;  and,  poured  round  all. 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,  — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes'of  death 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands. 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  soiuid 
Save  his  own  dashin^s,  —  vet  the  dead  are  there. 


BRYANT.  119 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
I'he  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep ;  —  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest ;  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men  — 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid. 
The  bowed  with  age,  the  infant  in  the  smiles 
And  beauty  of  its  innocent  age  cut  off — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side 
By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death. 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night. 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

TO  A  WATERFOWL. 

Whitheb,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  tliee  wrong. 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 


120  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

Seek'st  \h>>n  t!ir  j)l;i>li_v  l)rink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  ot  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 

Tliere  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast,  — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air.  — 

Lone  wanderiiii:,  hui  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  liave  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere ; 
Yet  stoop  not,  wear}',  to  the  wrlcome  land. 

Though  the  dark  m-ht  i>  m  ar. 

And  soon  that  toil  sIkiH  cikI  ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  (iml  a  Miiiini.r  Ikmiic.  and  rot. 
And  -cnaiii  among  thy  fellows;  reeds  shall  bend 
o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 


OOOII 


Thou  'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ;  yet  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given. 

And  shall  not  soon  depart : 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone. 
Guides  throuirh  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight. 
In  the  loiiir  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again,  — 
The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers  ; 

But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pairif 
And  dies  among  his  worshipers. 


CA&LYLE.  121 


CARLYLE. 

1795- 

Tboxas  Carltlb  was  born  in  Scotland  in  1793-  He  is  the  ion  of  a  Dnmfriesahire  furmer. 
lie  Rtudied  at  Edinburgh  University,  and  is  said  to  liave  intended  to  cuter  the  ministry,  but 
alfniuloned  the  purpose.  His  first  essay  in  literature  was  in  contributing  to  a  Cyclopndia,  and 
to  •kcvrral  magazine*.  Next  he  translated  Goethe's  Wilkelm  Meuter,  and  in  his  labors  acquired 
a  wnnii  and  lasting  love  for  German  literature.  Sartor  Retartiu,  in  wliich  he  laid  the  first 
siil)Htaiittal  Toundation  of  his  fame,  was  published  in  book-form  in  1834.  It  is  one  of  his  most 
rharacteristic  compositions,  exhibiting  the  originality,  depth,  and  brilliancy  of  his  thought,  and 
the  nungled  awkwardness  and  force  of  his  style,  in  full  relief.  Three  years  later  appeared  hi* 
Histcny  of  Ike  French  Jtetolution,  a  work  which  has  never  been  surpassed  in  point  of  careful 
'  'r,  and  graphic  power  of  narrative.    Of  his  later  books  we  can  mention  only  the 

x;«,  Hero-H'orikip,  Pott  and  Present,  Critical  and  Mitcellantotu  Essays,  CromweU't 
-     r-rh'-s,  Lires  of  Schiller  and  Sterling,  The  Life  of  Frederick  the  Great,  etc.     Mr. 
(  ;u  IN  ■  aggressive,  and  perhaps  we  may  say  the  most  audacious,  writer  of  his  age ; 

111-  a::  iis,  without  fear  or  favor.     His  chief  bugl>ear  is  "shams";  whatever  is 

i  -r  or  pretentious  invites  his  relentless  denunciation.     He  has  virtually  set  him- 

censor  and  reformer  of  the  world,  and  has  succeeded  in  his  assumed  r6le  as  well 
.,        )  nl  could.      His  intuitions  are  wonderfully  keen,  his  judgment  quick  and  generally 

sound,  and  his  love  of  right  and  luktred  of  wrong  are  so  fervent  as  to  animate  all  his  writings 
with  marvelous  potency.  He  has  exercised,  perhaps,  a  mightier  influence  on  the  thought  of 
the  nineteenth  century  than  any  other  living  man.  Our  first  and  third  extracts  are  from  his 
History  of  the  French  Revolution  ;  the  second,  from  Sartor  Resartus. 


EXECUTION  OF  MAEIE-ANTOINETTE.* 

On  Monday,  the  14th  of  October,  1793,  a  Cause  is  pending  in  the 
Palais  de  Justice,  in  the  new  Kevolutionary  Court,  such  as  these  old 
stone  walls  never  witnessed,  —  the  Trial  of  Marie- Antoinette.  The 
once  brightest  of  Queens,  now  tarnished,  defaced,  forsaken,  stands  here 
at  Fouquier-Tinville's  Judgment-bar,  answering  for  her  life.  The 
Indictment  was  delivered  her  last  night.  To  such  changes  of  human 
fortune  what  wonls  are  adequate  ?     Silence  alone  is  adequate 

Marie-Antoinette,  in  this  her  abandonment  and  hour  of  extreme 
need,  is  not  wanting  to  herself,  the  imperial  woman.  Her  look,  they 
say,  as  that  hideous  indictment  was  reading,  continued  calm  ;  "  she  was 
sometimes  observed  moving  her  fingers,  as  when  one  plays  on  the 
piano."  You  discern  not  without  interest,  across  that  dim  Revolution- 
ary Bulletin  itself,  how  she  l)ears  herself  queen-like.  Her  answers  are 
prompt,  clear,  oflen  of  Laconic  brevity ;  resolution,  which  has  grown 

'oinette,  Archduchnis  of  Austria  and  Queen  of  France,  was  condemned  by  the 

Tritninal  of  the  tVcnch  lUpnblinins,  and  was  executed  on  the  l«th  ()ctol»cr,  17W. 

page  89.    Her  haabuid.  Louis  XVI..  hud  been  ffvOlodiMd  on  tJie  Slat  of 


k 


122  cathcaet's  literary  reader. 

contemptuous  without  ceasing  to  be  dignified,  veils  itself  in  calm 
words.  **  You  persist  then  in  denial  ?  "  —  "  My  plan  is  not  denial ; 
it  is  the  truth  I  have  said,  and  1  persist  in  that." 

At  four  o'clock  on  Wednesday  morning,  after  two  days  and  two 
nights  of  interrogating,  jury-charging,  and  other  darkening  of  coun- 
sel, the  result  comes  out,  —  sentence  of  Death  !  "  Have  you  anythiiijr 
to  say  ?  "  The  Accused  shook  her  head,  without  speech.  Night's 
candles  are  burning  out ;  and  with  her,  too.  Time  is  finishing,  and  it 
will  be  Eternity  and  Day.  This  Hall  of  Tinville's  is  dark,  ill-lighted 
except  where  she  stands.     Silently  she  withdraws  from  it,  to  die. 

Two  Processions,  or  Royal  Progresses,  three-and-twenty  years  apart, 
have  often  struck  us  with  a  strange  feeling  of  contrast.  The  first  is  ot 
a  beautiful  Archduchess  and  Dauphiness,  quitting  her  mother's  citv,  at 
the  age  of  fifteen,  towards  hopes  such  as  no  other  Daughter  of  Eve 
then  had.  "On  the  morrow,"  says  Weber,  an  eye-witness,  "the 
Dauphiness  left  Vienna.  The  whole  city  crowded  out ;  at  first  with  a 
sorrow  which  was  silent.  She  appeared ;  you  saw  her  sunk  back  into 
her  caiTiage,  her  face  bathed  in  tears ;  hiding  her  eyes  now  with  her 
handkerchief,  now  with  her  hands;  several  times  putting  out  her 
head  to  see  yet  again  this  Palace  of  her  Fathers,  whither  she  was  to 
return  no  more.  She  motioned  her  regret,  her  gratitude,  to  the  good 
Nation,  which  was  crowding  here  to  bid  her  farewell.  Then  arose  not 
only  tears,  but  piercing  cries,  on  all  sides.  Men  and  women  alike 
abandoned  themselves  to  such  expression  of  their  sorrow.  It  was  an 
audible  sound  of  wail,  in  the  streets  and  avenues  of  Vienna.  The  last 
Courier  that  followed  her  disappeared,  and  the  crowd  melted  away." 

The  young  imperial  Maiden  of  Fifteen  has  now  become  a  worn,  dis- 
crowned Widow  of  Thirty-eight,  gray  before  her  time.  This  is  the 
last  Procession  :  "  Few  minutes  after  the  Trial  ended,  the  drums  were 
beating  to  arms  in  all  Sections ;  at  sunrise  the  armed  force  was  on 
foot,  cannons  getting  placed  at  the  extremities  of  the  Bridges,  in  the 
Squares,  Crossways,  all  aloTig  from  the  Palais  de  Justice  to  the  Place 
de  la  Revolution.  By  ten  o'clock,  numerous  patrols  were  circulating 
in  the  Streets ;  thirty  thousand  foot  and  horse  drawn  up  under  arras. 
At  eleven,  Marie-Antoinette  was  brought  out.  She  had  on  an  undress 
of  pique  blanc  (white  pique) ;  she  was  led  to  the  place  of  execution  in 
the  same  manner  as  an  ordinary  criminal :  bound  on  a  Cart,  accom- 
panied by  a  Constitutional  Priest  in  Lay  dress,  escorted  by  numerous 
detachments  of  infantiy  and  cavalry.     These,  and  the  double  row  of 


CARLYLE.  123 

troops  all  along  her  road,  she  appeared  to  reganl  with  indifiference. 
Oil  her  countenance  there  was  visible  neither  abashment  nor  pride. 
To  the  cries  of  five  la  R^publique  (Live  the  Eepublic !)  and  Down 
with  Tyranny,  which  attended  her  all  the  way,  she  seemed  to  pay  no 
heed.  She  spoke  little  to  her  Confessor.  The  tricolor  Streamers  on 
the  house-tops  occupied  her  attention,  in  the  Streets  du  Roule  and 
Saint-Honore ;  she  also  noticed  the  Inscriptions  on  the  house-fronts. 
On  reaching  the  Place  de  la  Revolution  her  looks  turned  towards 
the  Jardin  National,  whilom  Tuileries  ;  her  face  at  that  moment  gave 
signs  of  lively  emotion.  She  mounted  the  Scaffold  with  courage 
enough ;  at  a  quarter  past  Twelve,  her  head  fell ;  the  Executioner 
showed  it  to  the  people,  amid  universal  long-continued  cries  of  Vive 
la  Republique.** 

NIOHT  VIEW  OF  A  CITT. 

I  LOOK  down  into  all  that  wasp-nest  or  bee-hive,  and  witness  their 
wax-laying  and  honey-making,  and  poison-brewing,  and  choking  by  sul- 
phur. From  the  Palace  esplanade,  where  music  plays  while  His  Serene 
Highness  is  pleased  to  eat  his  victuals,  down  the  low  lane,  where  in 
her  door-sill  the  aged  widow,  knitting  for  a  thin  livelihood,  sits  to 
feel  the  afternoon  sun,  I  see  it  all.  Couriers  arrive  bestrapped  and 
bebooted,  bearing  Joy  and  Sorrow  bagged-up  in  pouches  of  leather ; 
there,  top-liulen,  and  with  four  swift  horses,  rolls  in  the  country 
Baron  and  his  household ;  here,  on  timber-leg,  the  lamed  Soldier  hops 
painfully  along,  beting  alms  :  a  thousand  carriages,  and  wains,  and 
cars,  come  tumbling-in  with  Food,  with  young  Rusticity,  and  other 
Raw  Produce,  inanimate  or  animate,  and  go  tumbling  out  again  with 
Produce  manufactured.  That  living  flood,  pouring  through  these 
streets,  of  all  qualities  and  ages,  knowcst  thou  whence  it  is  coming, 
whither  it  is  going  ?  From  Eternity  onwards  to  Eternity  !  These 
ere  apparitions  :  what  else?  Are  they  not  souls  renden*d  visible :  in 
Bodies,  that  took  shape  and  will  lose  it,  melting  into  air  ?  Their 
solid  Pavement  is  a  Picture  of  the  Sense ;  they  walk  on  the  bosom  of 
Nothing,  blank  Time  is  behind  them  and  before  them.  Or  fanciest 
thou,  the  red  and  yellow  Clothes-screen  yonder,  with  spurs  on  its 
heels  and  feather  in  its  crown,  is  but  of  To-day,  without  a  Yesterday 
or  a  To-morrow ;  and  had  not  rather  its  Ancestor  alive  when  Hengst 
and  Horsa  overran  thy  Island  ?     Friend,  thou  st-est  here  a  living  link 


124  CATHCART*S    LITERAEY    READER. 

in  that  Tissue  of  History,  which  inweaves  all  Being :  watch  well,  or  it 
will  be  past  thee,  and  seen  no  more.  These  fringes  of  lamplight, 
struggling  up  through  smoke  and  thousand-fold  exhalation,  souk 
fathoms  into  the  ancient  region  of  Night,  what  thinks  Bootes  of  them, 
as  he  leads  his  Hunting-dogs  over  the  Zenith  in  their  leash  of  side- 
real fire  ?  That  stifled  hum  of  Midnight,  when  Traffic  has  lain  down 
to  rest ;  and  the  chariot-wheels  of  Vanity,  still  rolling  here  and  there 
through  distant  streets,  are  bearing  her  to  Halls  roofed-in,  and  lighted 
to  the  due  pitch  for  her ;  and  only  Vice  and  Misery,  to  prowl  or  to 
moan  like  night-birds,  are  abroad :  that  hum,  I  say,  like  the  sterto- 
rous, unquiet  8luml)er  of  sick  Life,  is  heard  in  Heaven !  O !  under 
that  hideous  coverlet  of  vapors,  and  putrefactions,  and  unimaginable 
gases,  what  a  Fermentiiig-vat  lies  simmering  and  hid  !  The  joyful 
and  the  sorrowful  are  there;  men  are  dying  there,  men  are  bcinir 
born  ;  men  are  praying,  —  on  the  other  side  of  a  brick  partition,  men 
are  cursing ;  and  around  them  all  is  the  vast,  void  Night.  The  proud 
Grandee  still  lingers  in  his  perfumed  saloons,  or  reposes  within  dam- 
ask curtains ;  Wretchedness  cowers  into  truckle-beds,  or  shivers  hun- 
ger-stricken into  its  lair  of  straw;  in  obscure  cellars,  Rouge-et-Noir* 
languidly  emits  its  voice-of-destiny  to  haggard  hungry  villains  ;  while 
Councilors  of  State  sit  plotting,  and  playing  their  high  chess-game, 
whereof  tlie  pawns  are  Men.  The  Lover  whispers  his  mistress  that 
the  coach  is  ready  ;  and  she,  full  of  hope  and  feiir,  glides  down,  to  fly 
with  him  over  the  borders :  the  Thief,  still  more  silently,  sets-to  his 
pick-locks  and  crowbars,  or  lurks  in  wait  till  the  watchmen  first  snore 
in  their  boxes.  Gay  mansions,  with  supper-rooms  and  dancing-rooms, 
are  full  of  light  and  music  and  high-swelling  hearts  ;  but,  in  the  con- 
demned cells,  the  pulse  of  life  beats  tremulous  and  faint,  and  blood- 
shot eyes  look  out  through  the  darkness,  which  is  around  and  within, 
for  the  light  of  a  stern  last  morning.  Six  men  are  to  be  hanged  on 
the  morrow ;  their  gallows  must  even  now  be  o'  building.  Upwards 
of  five-hundred-thonsand  two-legged  animals  without  feathers  lie 
round  us,  in  horizontal  position  ;  their  heads  all  in  nightcaps,  and  full 
of  the  foolishest  dreams.  Riot  cries  aloud,  and  stagijers  and  swaggers 
in  his  rank  dens  of  shame ;  and  the  Mother,  with  streaming  hair, 
kneels  over  her  pallid,  dying  infant,  whose  cracked  lips  only  her  tears 
now  moisten.  —  All  these  heaped  and  huddled  together,  with  nothing 
but  a  little  carpentry  and  masonry  between  them  :  —  crammed-in,  like 

*  A  gambler's  game. 


CABLTLB.  125 

s:iJted  fish,  in  their  barrel;  —  or  weltering,  shall 'I  say,  like  an  Egyp- 
tian pitcher  of  tamed  vipers,  each  struggling  to  get  its  head  above  the 
1  (thers  :  »uch  work  goes  on  under  that  smoke-counterpane  !  —  But  I  sit 
;il)ove  it  all ;  I  am  alone  with  the  Stars  ! 


THE  BEI6N  OF  TEBBOB. 

We  are  now,  therefore,  got  to  that  black  precipitous  abyss,  whither 
.11  things  have  long  been  tending ;  where,  having  now  arrived  on  the 
giddy  verge,  they  hurl  down,  in  confused  ruin  ;  headlong,  pellmell, 
down,  down  ;  —  till  Sansculottism  have  consummated  itself;  and  in 
ibis  wondrous  French  Revolution,  as  in  a  Doomsday,  a  World  have 
been  rapidly,  if  not  bom  again,  yet  destroyed  and  engulfed.  Terror  has 
long  iH'cn  terrible ;  —  but  to  the  actors  themselves  it  has  now  become 
manifest  that  their  appointed  course  is  one  of  Terror ;  and  they  say, 
*•  Be  it  so."  So  many  centuries  had  been  adding  together,  century 
transmitting  it  with  increase  to  century,  the  sum  of  Wickedness,  of 
Palsehootl,  Oppression  of  man  by  man.  Kings  were  sinners,  and 
Priests  were,  and  People.  Open-Scoundrels  rode  triumphant,  be- 
diademed,  In'-coronetted,  be-mitered;  or  the  still  fataller  species  of 
Secret-Scoundrels,  in  their  fair-somiding  formulas,  speciosities,  re- 
spectabilities, hollow  within :  the  race  of  quacks  was  grown  many 
88  the  sands  of  the  sea.  Till  at  length  such  a  sum  of  quackery  had 
accumidatcd  itself  as,  in  brief,  the  Earth  and  the  Heavens  were  weary 
of.  Slow  seemed  the  Pay  of  Settlement ;  coming  on,  all  impercepti- 
ble, across  the  bluster  and  fanfaronade  of  Court icrisms,  Conquering- 
Heroisms,  Most  Christian  Grand  Monarqueisnis,  Well-l)eloved  Pom- 
psdourisms :  yet,  b<^hold,  it  was  alwrys  coming :  behold,  it  has  come, 
suddenly,  unlooked  for  by  any  man  !  The  harvest  of  long  centuries 
W88  ripening  and  whitening  so  rapidly  of  late ;  and  now  it  is  grown 
white,  and  is  reaped  rapidly,  as  it  were,  in  one  day  —  reaped  in  this 
Reign  of  Terror ;  and  earried  home  to  Hades  and  the  Pit !  Unhappy 
Sons  of  Adam !  it  is  ever  so ;  and  never  do  they  know  it,  nor  will 
they  know  it.  With  cheerfully-smoothed  countenances,  day  after  day, 
and  generation  after  generation,  they,  calling  cheerfully  to  one  another 
**  Well-speed-ye,"  are  at  work  mwittff  the  wind.  And  yet,  as  God 
lives,  they  shall  reap  the  whirltcind ;  no  other  thing,  we  say,  is  possi- 
l>le,  —  since  God  k  a  Truth  and  His  World  is  a  Truth. 


k 


126  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

PRESCOTT. 
1796- 1859. 

William  Hicklino  P»Escorr,  gnndson  of  Colonel  William  Presoott,  commander  of  the 
patriot  troops  at  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  was  bom  at  Salem,  Mass.,  in  17%,  and  died  in  1859. 
He  graduated  at  Harvard  iu  IbU,  having  won  distinction  by  liis  attainments  ia  classical  learn- 
ing. An  accident  during  his  college  course  occasioned  an  injury  to  his  eye,  Mhicli  resulted 
iinaUy  in  almost  total  blindncM.  He  spent  two  years  iu  Europe,  and  returned  with  the  purpose 
of  devoting  himself  to  historical  labors.  His  lirst  work,  T%e  IlUtory  of  Ferdinaud  and  IsabeUn, 
was  published  in  IH37,  and  was  almost  immediately  reprinted  in  France,  Germany,  and  Spain. 
The  author  was  overwhelmed  with  complimenU,  one  of  the  most  notable  of  which  was  his 
election  to  membership  of  the  Spauish  Royal  Academy  of  Histor}*.  In  l&W  he  gave  to  the 
world  his  Hittory  of  Ike  Conquest  of  Meriio,  and  in  l»t7  the  History  of  the  Conquest  of  Pern. 
In  I860  Mr.  Prescutt  visited  Europe,  traveling  in  Great  Britain  and  on  the  Continent.  Five 
years  later  tlic  first  two  volumes,  and  in  IbiH  the  third,  of  the  History  of  Ike  Reign  of  Philip  the 
Second  of  Spain  were  issued ;  but  he  did  not  live  to  complete  the  work.  In  addition  to  the 
histories  named  above,  Mr.  PrascoU  contribated  to  our  literature  a  volume  of  Biographical  and 
Critical  Miscellanies,  which  includes  a  very  valuable  essay  on  Spanish  Literature.  His  style  is 
admirably  suited  to  historical  composition,  presenting  a  happy  compound  of  the  majesty,  bril- 
liancy, and  elegance  which  singly  characterize  those  whom  the  world  esteems  its  greatest  his- 
torians. His  unfinished  work,  7%«  History  of  Philip  the  Second,  is  generally  accounted  his  best. 
He  was  a  man  of  kindly  nature,  and  his  generous  encouragement  of  younger  writers,  con- 
spicuous among  whom  was  John  Lothrop  Motley,  was  eonrincing  proof  of  bis  tme  nobility. 

THE  VALLEY  AKD  CITY  OF  MEXICO. 

The  troops,  refreshed  by  a  night's  rest,  succeeded,  early  on  the 
following  day,  in  gaining  the  crest  of  the  sierra  of  Ahualco,  which 
stretches  like  a  curtain  between  the  two  great  mountains  on  the 
north  and  soutli.  Their  progress  was  'now  comparatively  easy,  and 
they  marched  forward  with  a  buoyant  step  as  they  felt  they  were 
treading  the  soil  of  Montezuma.* 

They  had  not  advanced  far,  when,  turning  an  angle  of  the  sierni, 
they  suddenly  came  on  a  view  which  more  than  compensated  tht; 
toils  of  the  preceding  day.  It  was  that  of  the  Valley  of  Mexico,  or 
Tenochtitlan,  as  more  commonly  called  by  the  natives ;  which,  with 
its  picturesque  assemblage  of  water,  woodland,  and  cultivated  plains, 
its  shining  cities,  and  shadowy  hills,  was  spread  out  like  some  gay  and 
gorgeous  panorama  before  them.  In  the  highly  rarefied  atmosphere 
of  these  upper  regions,  even  remote   objects   have   a   brilliancy   of 

♦  MoNTEZUM.i.  The  Monteznnias  were  the  Aztec,  or  native.  Emperors  of  Mexico  (1437- 
1519),  and  extended  the  boundaries  of  their  domains  by  the  conquest  of  several  adjacent  nations. 
They  built  fine  cities  and  temples,  and  were  able  and  powerful  monarchs.  In  1519  Cortes  with 
nn  army  of  Spanianls  invaded  the  country  and  conquered  it.  The  extract  is  from  Mr.  Prescott's 
charming  work.  The  Conquest  of  Mexico. 


PRESCOTT.  127 

coloring  and  a  distinctness  of  outline  which  seem  to  annihilate  dis- 
tance. Stretching  far  away  at  their  feet  were  seen  noble  forests  of 
oak,  sycamore,  and  cedar,  and  beyond,  yellow  fields  of  maize  and  the 
towering  maguey,  intermingled  with  orchards  and  blooming  gardens ; 
for  flowi-rs,  in  such  demand  for  their  religious  festivals,  were  even 
more  abundant  in  this  populous  valley  than  in  other  parts  of  Anahuac. 
In  the  center  of  the  great  basin  were  l)eheld  the  lakes,  occupying  then 
a  much  lanrer  portion  of  its  surface  than  at  present ;  their  borders 
thickly  studded  with  towns  and  hamlets,  and,  in  the  midst,  like  some 
Indian  empress  with  her  coronal  of  pearls,  — the  fair  city  of  Mexico, 
with  her  white  towers  and  pyramidal  temples,  reposing,  as  it  were, 
n\\  the  bosom  of  the  waters,  —  the  far-famed  "  Venice  of  the  Aztecs." 
High  over  all  rose  the  royal  hill  of  Chapultepec,  the  residence  of  the 
Mexican  monarchs,  crowned  with  the  same  grove  of  gigantic  cypresses 
which  at  this  day  fling  their  broad  shadows  over  the  land.  In  the 
distance  beyond  the  blue  waters  of  the  lake,  and  nearly  screened  by 
intervening  foliage,  was  seen  a  shining  speck,  the  rival  capital  of 
Tezcuco,  and  still  farther  on,  the  dark  belt  of  porphyry,  girdling  the 
valley  around,  like  a  rich  setting  which  Nature  had  devised  for  the 
fairest  of  her  jewels. 

Such  was  the  beautiful  vision  which  broke  on  the  eyes  of  the  Con- 
(juerors.  And  even  now,  when  so  sad  a  change  has  come  over  the 
scene ;  when  the  stately  forests  have  been  laid  low,  and  the  soil,  un- 
slieltered  from  the  fierce  radiance  of  a  tropical  s\m,  is  in  many  places 
.ilwindoned  to  sterility ;  when  the  waters  have  retired,  leaving  a  broad 
and  ghastly  margin  white  with  the  incrustation  of  salts,  while  the 
rities  and  handets  on  their  borders  have  moldered  into  ruins ;  even 
MOW  that  desolation  broods  over  the  landscape,  so  indestructible  are 
the  lines  of  beauty  which  Nature  has  traced  on  its  features,  that  no 
traveler,  however  cold,  can  gaze  on  them  with  any  other  emotions 
than  those  of  astonishment  and  rapture. 

What,  then,  must  have  been  the  emotions  of  the  Spanianls,  when, 
after  working  their  toilsome  way  into  the  upper  air,  the  cloudy  tal)er- 
nade  parted  lu'fore  their  eyes,  and  they  In-held  these  fair  scenes  in  all 
their  pristine  magnificence  and  l)eauty  ?  It  was  like  the  spectacle 
which  greeted  the  eyes  of  Moses  from  the  summit  of  Pisgah,  and,  in 
!  l»e  warm  glow  of  their  feelings,  they  cried  out,  "  It  is  the  promised 
land  !  •• 

But  these  feelings  of  admiration  were  soon  followed  by  others  of  a 


1^8  CATHCAttT^S    LITEEAKY     i:i   \l)li;. 

very  (lillrrciit  coin})!  tiic\  >;iu  in  all  tlii>  iIk-  f\i(l.nct*s  of  a 

civilization  and  power  lur  bupenor  to  auytliiug  they  hud  yet  encoun- 
tered. The  more  timid,  disheartened  by  the  prospect,  shrunk  from  a 
contest  so  HI ic()ua!.  ,  ndtd,  a>    nic\    li.d,  -nin    Ioihk  r 

occasions,  to  U-  led  ouin  .-..m  to  \  t  im  (  ni/..  >m  i:  \>,.-  ikjL  tlie  dfeet 
produced  on  the  sanj^iiiu  spirit  ol  tin-  «:i  lu  lal.  \[i>  avarice  was 
sharpened  l)_v  the  disph.y  of  the  dazzling  spod  ai  his  feet;  and.  if  In 
felt  a  natural  anxitiv  at  thf  roniiida])!*'  <)(hl>.  hi-  coiirKh-nee  was  re- 
newed, as  he  ga/(tl  on  the  lines  of  hi>  N.icr.ii-.  uii<)>r  \\.-,.i  hcr-beaten 
visaf^^s  and  battered  armor  told  of  battles  won  and  diliieulties  sur- 
niountwl,  while  liis  bold  barbarians,  with  appetites  whetted  by  th( 
view  ol'  tin-ir  ennnit  >"  eonntr}  .  m  <nicd  like  eagles  on  the  iiiountai! 
ready  to  pounce  upon  their  prey.  By  argument,  enti*eaty,  and  mena(  t , 
he  endeavored  to  restore  the  faltering  courage  of  the  soldiers,  urgiiiL: 
tlitin  not  to  think  of  r.  ire.. t.  now  th;,t  lluy  had  reaeln  d  the  Lioal  ; 
whieh  tilt  V  had  pautt-d.  and  the  goldiii  uati  s  were  opeiud  tu  ri-cei\. 
them.  In  these  etfoii>  he  was  well  seeondtd  hv  the  brave  cavalier >. 
who  held  honor  as  (har  to  them  as  fortune;  untU  the  dullest  spirit- 
canirht  soine\\h;.t  of  the  enthusiasm  of  their  leadjTs,  and  the  i>ener<d 
iiad  the  sat  i-fait  ion  to  x  e  lii>  hc-ilat  iiil:'  eolninii-.  with  tluii'  n-ual 
buoyant  step,  once  more  on  iluir  in;  itIi  dcjwn  the  slopes  of  the 
sierra. 

THE  COLONIZATION  OF  AMERICA. 

It  is  not  easy  at  thi<  time  to  comprehend  tiie  impidse  given  to 

Europe  by  the  di-eovtrv  of  Anuriea.  It  was  not  the  ^-iMdiial  ae(jnisi- 
tion  of  some  lx)rder  territory,  a  ])rovinee  or  a  kiiiL^doni,  that  had  been 
gained,  but  a  new  world  that  was  now  thrown  o])en  to  tlie  European. 
The  races  of  animals,  the  minend  trea-^nn  s.  tlie  veLictahle  forms,  and 
the  varied  aspeets  of  nature,  man  in  the  diir>  r.tit  pliascs  of  civiliza- 
tion, tilled  the  mind  with  entirely  lew  <ci<  of  idea-.  th;:t  chanii-ed  the 
habitual  current  of  thought,  and  stimtdated  it  to  indetiuite  conjecture. 
The  easrerness  to  explore  the  wonderful  secret-  of  tln^  new  hemispheri' 
beeanic  so  active,  that  the  principal  cities  of  Spain  were,  in  a  manner. 
depopulated,  as  einiirrants  thronired  one  after  another  to  take  their 
chance  upon  the  dcr]).  It  was  a  world  of  romance  that  was  thrown 
open  :  for,  whatever  iniuht  be  the  luck  of  the  adventurer,  his  reports 
on  his  return  were  tin<red  with  a  eolorinsr  of  romance  that  .stimulated 
still  hi":her  the  sensitive  fineie-  of  hi-  eoiiutrvmeii,  and  nourished  the 


PRESCOTT.  1 29 

iiiiiuTical  sentiments   of  an  age   of  chivalry.     They  listened   with 

ittentive  ears  to  tales   of  Amazons,  which   seemed   to   realize   the 

( I  i--ii'   legends   of  antiquity;    to  stories  of  Patagonian  giants;   to 

tliiiiiMu^  pictures  of  an  EL  Dorado  (Golden  Land),  where  the  sands 

.  il  with  gems,  and  golden  pebbles  as  large  as  birds'  ^gs  were 

_^  ,<  d  in  nets  out  of  the  rivers. 

Yet  that  the  adventurers  were  no  impostors,  but  dupes,  too  easy 
dupes,  of  their  own  credulous  fancies,  is  shown  by  the  extravagant 
cluiracter  of  the ir  enterprises  ;  by  expeditions  in  search  of  the  magical 
I'ountain  of  Health,  of  tlie  golden  Temple  of  Dolwyba,  of  the  golden 
Sepulchres  of  Yenu,  —  for  gold  was  ever  floating  before  their  distem- 
ured  vision,  and  the  name  of  Costilla  del  Oro  (Golden  Castle),  the 
most  unhealthy  and  unprotitiible  region  of  the  Isthmus,  held  out  a 
bright  promise  to  the  unfortunate  settler,  who  too  frequently  instead 
of  gold  found  there  only  his  gnive.  , 

In  this  realm  of  enchantment  all  the  accessories  served  to  maintain 
lie  illusion.  The  simple  natives,  with  their  defenseless  bodies  and 
rude  weapons,  were  no  match  for  the  European  warrior,  armed  to  the 
teeth  in  mail.  The  odds  were  as  great  as  those  found  in  any  legend 
nf  chivalrj',  where  the  lance  of  the  good  knight  overturned  hundreds  at 
a  touch.  The  perils  that  lay  in  the  discoverer's  path,  and  the  suffer- 
ings he  had  to  sustain,  were  scarcely  inferior  to  those  that  beset  the 
knight-errant.  Hunger  and  thirst  and  fatigue,  the  deadly  effluvia  of 
the  morass,  with  its  swarms  of  venomous  insects,  the  cold  of  moun- 
tain snows,  and  the  scorching  sun  of  the  tropics,  —  these  were  the 
lot  of  every  cavalier  who  came  to  seek  his  fortunes  in  the  New 
World.  It  was  the  reality  of  romance.  The  life  of  the  Spanish  ad- 
venturer was  one  chapter  more,  and  not  the  least  remarkable,  in  the 
chronicles  of  knight-errantr\'. 

The  character  of  the  warrior  took  somewhat  of  the  exaggerated 
coloring  shed  over  his  exploits.  Proud  and  vainglorious,  swelled 
With  lofty  anticipations  of  his  destiny,  and  an  invincible  confidence  in 
his  own  resources,  no  danger  could  appall  and  no  toil  could  tire  him. 
The  greater  tlu;  danger,  indeed,  the  higher  the  charm  ;  for  his  soul 
r.'veled  in  excitement,  and  the  enterprise  without  peril  wanted  that 
-pur  of  romance  which  was  necessary  to  rouse  his  energies  into 
ution.  Yet  in  the  motives  of  action  meaner  influences  were  strangely 
mingled  with  the  loftier,  the  temporal  with  the  spiritual.  Gold  was 
the  incentive  and  the  recompense,  and  in  the  pursuit  of  it  his  inflexible 
6«  I 


1'30  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

nature  rarely  hesitated  as  to  the  means.  His  courage  was  sullied 
with  cruelty,  the  cruelty  that  flowed  equally,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
from  his  avarice  and  his  rclitfion ;  religion  as  it  was  understood  in 
that  age,  —  the  religion  of  the  Crusader.  It  was  the  convenient  cloak 
for  a  multitude  of  sins,  which  covered  them  even  from  himself.  The 
Castilian,  too  proud  for  hypocrisy,  committed  more  cruelties  in  the 
name  of  religion  than  were  ever  practised  by  the  pagan  idolater  or  the 
fanatical  Moslem.  The  burning  of  the  inlideJ  was  a  sacrifice  accept- 
able to  Heaven,  and  the  conversion  of  those  who  survived  amply 
atoned  for  the  foulest  offences.  It  is  a  melancholy  and  mortifying 
consideration  that  the  most  uncompromising  spirit  of  intolerance  — 
the  spirit  of  the  Inquisitor  at  home,  and  of  the  Crusader  abroad  — 
should  have  emanated  from  a  religion  which  preached  "  peace  upon 
earth  and  good-will  towards  man  "  ! 

Wiiat  a  contrast  did  these  children  of  Southern  Europe  present  to 
the  Anglo-Saxon  races,  who  scattered  themselves  along  the  great 
northern  division  of  the  Western  Hemisphere  !  For  the  principle  of 
action  with  these  latter  was  not  avarice,  nor  the  more  specious  pretext 
of  proselytism ;  but  independence,  —  independence  religious  and  politi- 
cal. To  secure  this,  they  were  content  to  eani  a  bare  subsistence  by 
a  life  of  frugality  and  toil.  They  asked  nothing  from  the  soil  but 
the  reasonable  returns  of  their  own  labor.  No  golden  visions  threw  a 
deceitfid  halo  around  their  path,  and  beckoned  them  onwards  through 
seas  of  blood  to  the  subversion  of  an  unoffending  dynasty.  They 
were  content  with  the  slow  but  steady  progress  of  their  social  polity. 
They  patiently  endured  the  privations  of  the  wilderness,  watering  the 
tree  of  liberty  with  their  tears  and  with  the  sweat  of  their  brow,  till 
it  took  deep  root  in  the  land  and  sent  up  its  branches  high  towards 
the  heavens,  while  the  communities  of  the  neighboring  continent, 
shooting  up  into  the  sudden  splendors  of  a  tropical  vegetation,  exhib- 
ited, even  in  their  prime,  the  sure  symptoms  of  decay. 

It  would  seem  to  have  been  especially  ordered  by  Providence,  that 
the  discovery  of  the  two  great  divisions  of  the  American  Hemisphere 
should  fall  to  the  two  races  best  fitted  to  conquer  and  colonize  them. 
Thus  the  northern  section  was  consigned  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  race, 
whose  orderly,  industrious  habits  found  an  ample  field  for  develop- 
ment muler  its  colder  skies  and  on  its  more  rugged  soil ;  while  the 
southern  portion,  with  its  rich  tropical  products  and  treasures  of  min- 
eral wealth,  held  out  the  most  attractive  bait  to  invite  the  entei-prise  of 


I 


PRESCOTT.  131 

the  Spaiiianl.     How  different  might  have  been  the  result,  if  the  bark 
tf  Columbus  hatl  taken  a  more  northerly  direction,  as  he  at  one  time 
meditated,  and  landed  its  band  of  adventurers  on  the  shores  of  what 
is  now  Free  America. 

8T0RMIK6  THE  TEMPLE  OF  KEXICO. 

TuE  parties  closed  with  the  desperate  fiiry  of  men  who  had  no  hope 
but  in  victory.  Quarter  was  neither  asked  nor  given  ;  and  to  fly  was 
impossible.  The  edge  of  the  area  was  unprotected  by  parapet  or 
biittlement.  The  least  slip  would  be  fatal ;  and  the  combatants,  as 
they  struggled  in  mortal  agony,  were  sometimes  seen  to  roll  over  the 
sheer  sides  of  the  precipice  together.  The  battle  lasted  with  uninter- 
mittiug  fury  for  three  hours.  The  number  of  the  enemy  was  double 
that  of  the  Christians ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  it  were  a  contest  which 
iimst  be  determined  by  numbers  and  brute  force,  rather  than  by 
Miperior  science.  But  it  was  not  so.  The  invulnerable  armor  of  the 
Spiuiiard,  his  sword  of  matchless  temper,  and  his  skill  in  the  use  of 
it  gave  him  advantages  which  far  outweighed  the  odds  of  physical 
strength  and  numbers.  After  doing  all  that  the  courage  of  despair 
could  enable  men  to  do,  resistance  grew  fainter  and  fainter  on  the  side 
of  the  Aztecs.  One  after  another  they  had  fallen.  Two  or  three 
priests  only  survived  to  be  led  away  in  triumph  by  the  victors.  Every 
other  combatant  was  stretched  a  corpse  on  the  bloody  arena,  or  had 
b?en  hurled  from  the  giddy  heights.  The  loss  of  the  Spaniards 
iniounted  to  forty-five  of  their  best  men  ;  and  nearly  all  the  re- 
mainder were  more  or  less  injured  in  the  desperate  conflict.  The 
victorious  cavaliers  now  nished  towards  the  sanctuaries.  Penetrating 
into  their  recesses,  they  had  the  mortification  to  find  the  image  of  the 
Vii^in  and  C'ross  removed.  But  in  the  other  edifice  they  still  beheld 
the  grim  figure  of  the  Mexican  Idol,  with  his  censer  of  smoking  hearts, 
and  the  walls  of  his  oratory  reeking  with  gore,  —  not  improbably  of 
their  own  countrymen.  With  shouts  of  triumph  the  Christians  tore 
the  uncouth  monster  from  his  niche,  and  tumbled  him,  in  the  presence 
of  the  horror-stnick  Aztecs,  down  the  steps  of  the  teocalli.  They  tlien 
M't  fire  to  the  accursed  building.  The  flame  speedily  ran  up  the  slen- 
der towers,  sending  forth  an  ominous  light  over  city,  lake,  and  valley, 
to  the  remotest  hut  among  the  mountains.  It  was  the  funeral  pyre  of 
paganism,  and  procbimed  the  fall  of  that  sanguinary  religion  which 
had  so  long  hung  like  a  dark  riourl  over  tlio  fair  regions  of  Anahuac 


l'i;i  CATUCAKTS    LITKKAKY    KEADtK. 

LYELL. 

1797- 1875. 

SiE  Chakles  Ltell,  an  eminent  English  geolof^ist,  was  horn  in  1797,  and  lived  in  the  en- 
joyment of  full  intellectual  vigor  until  the  early  part  of  It^a,  when  he  died.  He  ranks  among 
the  foremost  of  acientific  discoverer*  and  writers  of  the  present  century.  His  best-knoMn  works, 
n*  PriudpUt  tf  Otology,  Tkt  Oeologieml  Etideueet  of  the  Antiquity  of  Man,  Trarelt  in  North 
dwttrieu,  and  its  aeqad.  J  Steomd  Visit  to  the  VniUi  SUta,  have  been  widely  read  in  this  coun- 
try, and  valued  for  their  candid  views  of  American  institutions,  and  for  the  vast  fund  of  geological 
information  which  they  contain.  His  style  is  well  suited  to  scientific  composition,  and  invests 
kis  books  with  a  charm  which  is  rarely  found  in  works  of  such  solid  character. 

THE  DISMAL  SWAMP. 

Thbrb  are  many  sWamps  or  morasses  in  this  low,  flat  region,  and 
one  of  the  lai^cst  of  these  occurs  between  the  towns  of  Norfolk  and 
Weldon.  We  traversed  several  miles  of  its  northern  extremity  on  the 
railway,  which  is  supported  on  piles.  It  bears  the  cppropriate  and 
very  expressive  name  of  the  "  Great  Dismal,'*  and  is  no  less  than 
forty  miles  in  length  from  north  to  south,  and  twenty-five  miles  in  its 
greatest  width  from  east  to  west,  the  northern  half  being  situated  in 
Virginia,  the  southern  in  North  Carolina.  I  observed  that  the  water 
was  obviously  in  motion  in  several  places,  and  the  morass  had  some- 
what the  appearance  of  a  broad  inundated  river-plain,  covered  with  all 
kinds  of  aquatic  trees  and  shrubs,  the  soil  being  as  black  as  in  a  peat- 
bog. The  accumulation  of  vegetable  matter  going  on  here  in  a  hot 
climate,  over  so  vast  an  area,  is  a  subject  of  such  high  geological  in- 
terest, that  I  shall  relate  what  I  learnt  of  this  singular  morass.  It  is 
one  enormous  quagmire,  soft  and  muddy,  except  where  the  surface  is 
rendered  partially  firm  by  a  covering  of  vegetables  and  their  matted 
roots  ;  yet,  strange  to  say,  instead  of  being  lower  than  the  level  of  the 
surrounding  country,  it  is  actually  higher  than  nearly  all  the  firm  and 
dry  land  which  encompasses  it,  and,  to  make  the  anomaly  complete, 
in  spite  of  its  semi-fluid  character,  it  is  higher  in  the  interior  than 
towards  its  margin. 

The  only  exception  to  both  these  statements  is  found  on  the  west- 
em  side,  where,  for  the  distance  of  about  twelve  or  fifteen  miles,  the 
streams  flow  from  slightly  elevated  but  higher  land,  and  supply  all  its 
abundant  and  overfloi^ang  water.  Towards  the  north,  the  east,  and 
the  south  the  waters  flow  from  the  SAvamp  to  different  rivers,  which 


LYELL.  133 

«rive  abundant  tvidrncc,  hy  the  i*ate  of  tlu'ir  descent,  that  the  Great 
Dismal  is  hio:her  than  the  surrounding  firm  ground.  This  fact  is  also 
'lined  hy  the  uiensurtMnents  made  in  leveling  for  the  milway  from 
I  -mouth  to  Sutfolk,  and  for  two  canals  cut  through  different  parts 
of  the  morass,  for  the  sake  of  obt:iining  timber.  The  railway  itself, 
when  traversing  the  Great  Dismal,  is  literally  higher  than  when  on  the 
land  some  miles  distant  on  either  side,  and  is  six  to  seven  feet  higher 
tlian  where  it  passes  over  dry  ground  near  to  Suffolk  and  Portsmouth. 
I'pon  the  whole,  the  center  of  the  morass  seems  to  lie  more  than 
twrlve  feet  al)ove  the  flat  cou!itry  round  it.  If  the  stnyiins  whicli  now 
How  in  from  the  west  had  for  ages  been  bringing  down  black  fluid 
mire  instead  of  water,  over  the  firm  subsoil,  we  might  suppose  the 
(rround  so  inundated  as  to  have  acquired  its  present  configuration. 
Some  small  ridges,  however,  of  land  must  have  existed  in  the  original 
plain  or  basin,  for  these  now  rise  like  low  islands  in  various  places 
above  the  general  surface.  But  the  streams  to  the  westward  do  not 
))ring  down  liquid  mire,  and  are  not  charged  with  any  sediment. 
The  soil  of  the  swamp  is  formed  of  vegetable  matter,  usually  without 
any  admixture  of  earthy  particles.  We  have  here,  in  fact,  a  deposit 
of  peat  from  ten  to  fifteen  feet  in  thickness,  in  a  latitude  where,  owing 
to  the  heat  of  the  sua  and  l6ngth  of  the  summer,  no  peat-mosses  like 
those  of  Europe  would  be  looked  for  under  ordinary  circumstances. 

In  countries  like  Scotland  and  Ireland,  where  the  climate  is  damp, 
and  the  summer  short  and  cool,  the  natund  vegetation  of  one  year 
docs  not  rot  away  during  the  next  in  moist  situations.  If  water 
flows  into  such  land  it  is  absorbed,  and  promotes  the  vigorous  growth 
of  mosses  and  other  aquatic  plants,  and  when  they  die  the  same 
water  arrests  their  putrefaction.  But,  as  a  general  nile,  no  such 
accumulation  of  peat  can  tiike  place  in  a  country  like  that  of  Virginia, 
where  the  summer's  he^it  causes  annually  as  lirge  a  quantity  of  dead 
plants  to  decay  as  is  equal  in  amount  to  the  vcirctablc  matter  jiroduced 
in  one  year 

There  arc  many  trees  and  slirubs  in  the  region  of  the  I'inc  liarrms 
(and  the  same  may  Im*  said  of  the  United  States  geju'rally)  which,  like 
our  willows,  flourish  luxuriantly  in  water.  The  juniper  trees,  or 
white  cerlar,  stand  firndy  in  the  softest  part  of  the  quagmire,  supported 
by  their  long  tap-roots,  and  afford,  with  many  other  evergreens,  a 
d  irk  shade,  under  which  a  multitude  of  ferns,  reeds,  a!ul  shrubs,  from 
nine  to  eighteen  feet  high,  and  a  thick  carpet  of  mosses,  four  or  five 


l')l  cx'rnc  Mri's   T.rni:AiiY   reader. 

iiichc-^  liiLrli.  spriiiL:  up.  and  arc  prDtictcd  iVoin  the  r;iys  of  the  sun. 
When  these  are  most  power! ul,  tlie  large  cedar  and  many  other  decid- 
uous trees  are  in  full  leaf.  The  black  soil  formed  beneath  this  shade, 
to  winch  tlic  IIIO--1  >  and  ihc  Icavi  -  make  aiinual  addition^,  docs  not 
perfectly  rescud)!c  the  j.cal  ot'  luii-<»p.-,  iiio-t  ()['  th«'  plam>  l)ciu;<  SO 
decayed  as  to  leave  little  uiui-c  than  M't't  Mack  mud,  without  any  traces 
of  orj^ranizatiou.  This  loose  Mtil  i-  calli'il  spon-v  hy  the  laborers  ; 
and  it  has  ])cen  ascerUiined  tliai  when  .  \po-cd  to  the  >un  and  thrown 
out  on  the  bank  of  a  canal  ulc  --  ha\c  been  made,  it  rots  en- 

tirely away.  1  lenee  it  is  evident  tn  it  it  owes  its  preservation  in  the 
swamp  to  moisture  and  the  shade  of  the  dense  foliai::e.  The  evapo- 
Tiition    continuali\   L:i'inu-   on    in   the   u.:  iininer 

cools  the  air  and  generates  u  tempenitnic  i  -niii);,!,-  iaai  oi  a  more 
northern  climate,  or  a  region  more  ilc\aiiii  above  the  level  of  the 
sea. 

Numerous  trunks  of  large  and  tall  tree?  lie  buried  in  the  black  mire 
of  the  morass.  In  so  loose  a  soil  they  are  t  i-ily  ovti  throw  n  by  winds, 
and  nearly  as  many  have  been  found  lying  beneath  tin  >urfaee  of  the 
peaty  soil  as  standinij  erect  upon  it.  Wlien  thrown  down,  they  are 
soon  covered  by  \\,;ti  r.  and  kccpinu"  wet,  they  never  decompose,  except 
the  sap-wood,  which  is  less  than  an  inch  thick.  Much  of  the  timber 
is  obtained  by  soundinp:  a  foot  or  two  below  the  surface,  and  it  is 
sawn  into  planks  while  half  und(  r  w.iicr. 

The  Great  Dismnl  has  been  d(  -cribed  n?  lioinir  hio^hcst  towarcjs  its 
center.  Here,  however,  tin  i-c  is  an  (Xtensive  lake  of  an  oval  form, 
seven  miles  lonir  and  more  than  five  widi',  tiie  depth,  where  greatest, 
fifteen  feet;  and  its  bottom  consisting  of  mud  like  the  swamp,  but 
sometimes  with  a  pure  white  sand,  a  foot  deep,  covering  the  mud. 
The  water  is  traii<]iarent,  though  tinged  of  a  pale  bro^vn  color,  like 
that  of  ourpeat-nio>s(  s.  and  contains  abundance  offish.  This  sheet 
of  water  is  usually  even  with  its  banks,  on  which  a  tidck  and  tall 
forest  grows.  There  is  no  beach,  for  the  bank  sinks  perpendicularly, 
so  that  if  the  waters  are  lowered  several  feet,  it  makes  no  alteration 
in  the  ])readtli  of  tlic  lake. 

Much  timber  has  been  cut  down  and  carried  out  from  the  swamp  by 
means  of  eaiials.  which  ;:rc  perfectly  straiudit  for  long  distances,  with 
the  trees  on  each  side  arcldnii-  over,  antl  almost  joining  their  branches 
across,  so  that  they  throw  a  dark  sliade  on  the  water,  which  of  itself 
looks  black,  beins:  colored  as  before   mentioned.     When  the  boats 


LYELL.  135 

merge  from  the  gloom  of  these  avenues  into  the  lake,  the  scene  is 
said  to  be  "as  beautiful  as  fairy-land." 

The  bears  inhabiting  the  swamp  climb  trees  in  search  of  acorns  and 
^um-berries,  breaking  off  large  boughs  of  the  oaks  in  order  to  draw 
I  lie  acorns  near  to  them.  These  same  bears  are  said  to  kill  hogs,  and 
even  cows.  There  are  also  wild-cats,  and  occasionally  a  solitary  wolf, 
in  the  morass. 

That  the  ancient  seams  of  coal  were  produced  for  the  most  part  by 
terrestrial  plants  of  all  sizes,  not  drifted  but  growing  on  the  spot,  is  a 
tlieory  more  and  more  generally  adopted  in  modern  times;  and  the 
-rowth  of  what  is  called  sponge  in  such  a  swamp,  and  in  such  a 
climate  as  the  Great  Dismal,  already  covering  so  many  square  miles 
of  a  low  level  region,  bordering  the  sea,  and  capable  of  spreading 
itself  indefinitely  over  the  adjacent  country,  helps  us  greatly  to  con- 
ceive the  manner  in  which  the  coal  of  the  ancient  carboniferous  rocks 
may  have  been  formed.  The  heat,  perhaps,  may  not  have  been  ex- 
cessive when  the  coal-measures  originated,  but  the  entire  absence  of 
frost,  with  a  warm  and  damp  atmosphere,  may  have  enabled  tropical 
forms  to  flourish  in  latitudes  far  distant  from  the  line.  Huge  swamps 
in  a  rainy  climate,  standing  above  the  level  of  the  surrounding  firm 
land,  and  supporting  a  dense  forest,  may  have  spread  far  and  wide, 
invading  the  plains,  like  some  European  peat-mosses  when  they  burst; 
tiid  the  frequent  submergence  of  these  masses  of  vegetable  matter 
beneath  seas  or  estuaries,  as  often  as  the  land  sank  down  during 
subterranean  movements,  may  have  given  rise  to  the  deposition  of 
-trata  of  mud,  sand,  or  limestone  immediately  upon  the  vegetable 
matter.  The  conversion  of  successive  surfiices  into  dry  land  where 
ntht  r  swamps  supporting  trees  may  have  formed,  might  give  origin  to 
I  continued  series  of  coal-measures  of  great  thickness.  In  some  kinds 
•f  coal  the  vegetable  texture  is  apparent  throughout  under  the  micro- 
-ropp ;  in  others,  it  has  only  partially  disappeared ;  but  even  in  this 
loal,  the  flattened  trunks  of  trees,  converted  into  pure  coal,  are  occa- 
sionally met  with,  and  erect  fossil  trees  are  observed  in  the  overlying 
-trata,  terminating  downwards  in  seams  of  coal. 


130  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

MACAULAY. 

1800- 1859. 

Thomas  Babikctott  Macavlay,  who  may  fairly  be  dMcribed  as  the  most  accomplished  liter- 
ary man  of  his  time,  was  born  in  Leiceatershire,  England,  in  IMX),  and  died  in  IbuU.     ills  lathe., 
Zachary  Macaolay,  was  an  eminent  philautbrupist.    The  subject  of  this  notice  entered  Trim! 
College,  Cambridge,  graduating  B.  A.  in  182:2,  with  a  reputation  for  varied  and  readily  availab. 
learning  such  as  few  collegians  have  ever  won.     In  lti26  he  was  called  to  the  liar,  and  in  IbM 
was  elected  to  represent  the  borough  of  Calne  in  Parliament.    In  that  body  he  was  au  active 
supporter  of  the  Reform  Measures.     In  18S4  he  was  sent  to  India  as  a  member  of  the  Supreme 
Council  of  Calcutta;  in  1839  he  was  made  Secretary  of  War;  in  1841  he  went  out  of  otUce,  un 
the  accession  of  Sir  Robert  Peel ;  in  18t6,  the  Whigs  returning  to  power,  he  was  appointed  Pa.\  - 
master-General  of  the  Forces,  and  bad  a  seat  in  the  Cabinet.    In  1»47  he  was  defeated  in  the  Pa 
liamentary  elections,  his  Edinburgh  constituents  disapproving  his  course  on  the  MaynuotliGm. 
question.    Five  years  later,  however,  these  sana- «  'lim  as  their  reprcbcutative  lu 

Parlianitnt,  where  he  served  them  till  1856,  wh.  1.  ^  from  jwlitical  life.     Mean- 

time, in  18i9,hewaselectedLordRectorof  the  Lu.  ......  „.  u...  ^  w.and  dclivc-red an  inaugural 

address  of  great  brilliancy.     In  1837  his  genius  and  services  in  literature  and  politics  received 
merited  recognition  in  his  elevation  to  the  peerage,  with  the  title  of  Banm  or  Lord  Macnulay. 

Macaulay's  first  essays  in  literature  were  in  the  department  of  poetr>  ;  during  his  university 
career  he  won  two  high  prizes  for  poetical  cowpositton,  and  he  was  a  frequent  contributor  of  verse 
to  Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine.    Among!  wn  youthful  productions  were  7%«  ^tf///« 

q^/rry  and  T%e  Sptmitk  ArwuuU^  poeais  wl.  .wed  the  niaturer  excellence  of  his  Layt 

iff  Jneient  Rome,  which  were  first  |>nbli»L m-.     In  the  periodical  above  mentioned  Ma- 

caulay  made  his  dibut  as  an  essayist ;  but  his  first  great  triumph  in  this  character  is  cuunccud 
with  the  pages  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  in  which,  in  1826,  appeared  his  masterly  essay  on 
Milton,  which  instantly  gave  him  acknowledged  rank  among  the  ablest  English  critics.  This 
essay  was  followed  by  many  others,  which  are  familiar  to  all  readers  of  English,  and  which  as  a 
collection  are  unsurpassed,  perliaps  unequaled,  in  the  literature  of  any  nation.  The  essay  on 
Bacon,  though  less  pc^uhur  than  some  of  its  associates,  illustrates  with  admirable  effect  the 
original  intellectual  power  and  vast  acquired  resources  of  the  author.  As  an  essayist  Macaulny 
very  closely  approaches  perfection.  His  poetry  lacks  the  sensuous  element  which  the  publ 
aeens  to  demand  in  that  form  of  composition,  and,  vigorous  and  dramatic  though  it  is  in  nu 
almost  unequaled  degree,  it  has  never  become  popular  with  the  mass  of  readers.  His  history 
has  been  assailed  for  its  manifestations  of  partisanship  and  its  occasional  inaccuracies.  But  in 
the  presence  of  his  essays  unfriendly  criticism  has  stayed  its  hand ;  and  even  the  eye  of  envy 
and  personal  animosity  has  failed  to  find  any  serious  blemishes  in  their  beautiful  and  symmetri- 
cal fabric.  There  is  little  risk  in  pronouncing  them  the  most  perfect  literary  products  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  The  first  and  second  volumes  of  Macaulay's  History  ofEnffhnd  "  from  the  time 
of  James  II.  down  to  a  time  which  is  within  the  memory  of  men  still  living,"  appeared  in  1849, 
and  won  immediate  success.  The  work  did  not,  however,  escape  censure ;  John  Wilson  Crokcr 
attacked  it  violently,  though  his  judgment  was  said  to  be  biased  by  personal  feeling,  and  Sir 
Archibald  Alison  deplored  its  general  lack  of  candor.  But  these  few  protesting  voices  were  drowned 
in  the  chorus  of  applause  with  which  the  literary  leaders  of  England  and  America  welcomed 
the  history.  All  things  considered,  the  writings  of  Macaulay  offer  a  more  remunerative  field  to 
the  student  than  do  those  of  any  other  English  writer,  except  of  course  Shakespeare.  In  point 
01  style,  construction,  and  effective  utilization  of  knowledge,  they  may  safely  be  used  as  models. 

THE  PTTEITAHS. 

We  would  speak  of  the  Puritans,  the  most  remarkable  body  of 
men,  perhaps,  which  the  world  has  ever  produced.  The  odious 
and  ridiculous  parts  of  their  character  lie  on  the  surface.     He  that 


MACAU LAY.  137 

runs  may  read  them ;  nor  have  there  been  wanting  attentive  and 
lalioious  obstTvurs  to  point  them  out.     For   many  years  aftt'r  the 
I asjtorution,  they  were  the  theme  of  unmeasured  inveetive  and  deri- 
lon.     Th(7  were  exposed  to  the  utmost  licentiousness  of  the  press 
lid  of  the  stage,  at  the  time  when  the  press  and  the  stage  were  most 
rcntious.     Tliey  were  not  men  of  letters;  they  were,  as  a  body,  un- 
popular :  they  could  not  defend  themselves;    and  the  publie  would 
not  take  them  under  its  protection.     They  were  therefore  abandoned, 
u  ithout  reserve,  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  satirists  and  dramatists. 
The  ostentatious  simplicity  of  their  dress,  their  sour  aspect,  their  nasal 
I  \van«(,  their  stiff  posture,  their  long  graces,  their  Hebrew  names,  the 
-  riptural  phrases  which  they  introduced  on  every  occasion,  their  con- 
iiipt  of  human  learning,  their  detestation  of  polite  amusements,  were 
indeed  fair  game  for  the  laughers.     But  it  is  not  from  the  laughers 
Jone  that  the  philosophy  of  history  is  to  be  learnt.     And  he  who 
pproaches  this  subject  should  carefully  guard  against  the  influence 
I  that  potent  ridicule  which  has  already  misled  so  many  excellent 
.\  riters. 

Those  who  roused  the  people  to  resistance,  who  directed  their 
measures  through  a  long  series  of  eventful  years,  who  formed,  out  of 
the  most  unpromising  materials  the  finest  army  tliat  Europe  had  ever 
(Ml,  who  trampled  down  King,  Church,  and  Aristocracy,  who,  in  the 
hort  intervals  of  domestic  sedition  and  rebellion,  made  the  name  of 
Ingland  terrible  to  every  nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  were  no 
vulgar  fanatics.     Most  of  their  absurdities  were  mere  external  batlges, 
like  the  signs  of  freemasonry  or  the  dresses  of  friars.     We  rq^t  that 
these  badges  were  not  more  attractive.     We  regret  that  a  body  to 
whose  courage  and  talents  mankind  has  owed  inestimable  obligations 
had  not  the  lofty  elegnnre  which  distinguished  some  of  the  adherents 
r  Charles  the  First,  or  the  easy  good-breeding  for  which  the  Court 
<\   Charles  the  Second  was  celebrated.     But,  if  we  must  make  our 
<  hoice,  we   shall,  like  Bassanio   in   the   play,  turn  from  the  specious 
'  askets  which  contain  only  the  Death's  head  and  the  Fool's  head,  and 
\  on  the  plain  leaden  chest  which  conceals  the  treasure. 
The  Puritans  were  men  whose  minds  had  derived  a  peculiar  char- 
ter from  the  daily  cont<implntion  of  superior  beings   and    eternal 
iten^sts.      Not  content  with  acknowledging,   in   general   terms,  an 
verruling  Providence,  they  habitually  ascriljed  every  event  to  the  will 
if  the  Great  Being  for  whose  power  nothing  was  too  vast,  for  whose 


!'>''>  CATii(Ai:r>    i,m.i;\Kv    i:i;Ai)i,i;. 

inspection  nothing  was  too  minute.  To  know  him,  to  serve  him,  to 
enjoy  him  was  with  theni  tlie  irrcat  end  of  existence.  Thcv  rejected 
with  (•(.iitciiipt  the  V,  n-iii..iii(,u-;  l,.,ma«4c  which  other  .sects  substituted 
for  the  pure  worship  of  the  »oul.  Instead  of  eatehing  occasional 
glimpses  of  the  Deity  throuijfh  an  obseurinjr  veil,  they  aspired  to  jraze 
full  on  his  intohrahK-  hn-hlncss,  and  to  comimnic  with  h;iii  lace  to 
face.  Hence  originated  their  contempt  for  terrestrial  distinctions. 
The  difference  l)etween  the  greatest  and  the  meanest  of  mankind 
seemed  to  vauisli,  wlu  n  compared  with  the  boundless  interval  whidi 
separated  the  whole  race  from  him  on  whom  their  own  eyes  were  con- 
stantly fixed.  They  reco-nizcd  no  title  to  superiority  but  his  favor; 
and,  confident  of  that  tavor,  tlu  v  (K  spised  aH  the  accomplishments 
and  all  the  dignities  of  the  world.  If  they  were  unacquainted  with 
the  works  of  philosophers  and  poets,  tiny  w(  n  (Ik  ply  read  in  the 
oracles  of  Grod.  If  their  names  were  not  found  in  the  registers  of 
heralds,  they  were  reconlcd  in  the  Book  of  Life.  If  their  steps  were 
not  accompanied  by  a  splendid  train  of  menials,  legions  of  minister- 
ing anj^cls  had  charge  of  them. 

Their  ])alaces  were  houses  not  matle  with  hands;  their  diadems 
crowns  of  glorj'  which  should  never  fade  away.  On  the  rich  and  the 
eloquent,  on  nobles  and  priests,  they  looked  down  with  contempt : 
for  they  estrenu'd  theniselv(  s  rich  in  a  more  pn cious  treasure,  and 
clo({ii(Mit  in  a  more  sublime  language,  nobles  by  the  right  -of  an  ear- 
lier creation,  and  priests  by  the  imposition  of  a  mightier  hand.  The 
very  iiu  aaest  of  tlieni  was  a  being  to  whose  fate  a  mysterious  and  ter- 
ril)le  importance  belonpred,  on  whose  slightest  action  the  spirits  of  light 
and  darkness  looked  with  anxious  interest,  who  had  been  destined, 
before  heaven  and  earth  wen-  created,  to  enjoy  a  felicity  which  should 
continue  when  heaven  and  earth  should  have  passed  away.  Events 
which  short-sighted  politicians  ascribed  to  earthly  causes,  had  been 
onlained  on  his  account.  For  his  sake  empires  had  risen,  and  flour- 
ished, and  decayed.  For  his  sake  the  Almighty  had  proclaimed  his 
will  l)y  the  pen  of  the  evangelist  and  the  harp  of  the  prophet.  He 
liul  been  wrested  by  no  common  deliverer  from  the  grasp  of  no  com- 
mon foe.  He  had  been  ransomed  by  the  s.veat  of  no  vulgar  agony,  by 
the  blood  of  no  earthly  sacrifice.  It  was  for  him  that  the  sun  had 
been  darkened,  that  the  rocks  had  l)een  rent,  that  the  dead  had  risen, 
that  all  nature  had  shuddered  at  the  sufferings  of  her  expiring  God. 

Thus  the  Puritan  was  made  np  of  two  different  men,  —  the  one  all 


MACAULAY.  139 

self-abasement,  penitence,  gratitude,  passion ;  the  other  proud,  cjalm, 
vl)le,  saji^acious.  He  prostrated  himself  in  the  dust  before  his 
r  ;  but  he  set  his  foot  on  the  neck  of  his  king.  In  his  devotional 
vtireraent  he  prayed  with  convulsions  and  groans  and  tears.  He 
was  half-maddened  by  glorious  or  terrible  illusions.  He  heard  the 
lyres  of  angels  or  the  tempting  whispers  of  fiends.  He  caught  a 
srieam  of  the  Beatific  Vision,  or  woke  screaming  from  dreams  of  ever- 
lasting fire.  Like  Vane,  he  thought  himself  entrusted  with  the  scepter 
of  the  millennial  year.  Like  Fleetwood,  he  cried  in  the  bitterness  of 
his  soul  that  God  had  hid  his  face  from  him.  But  when  he  took  his 
seat  in  the  council,  or  girt  on  his  sword  for  war,  these  tempestuous 
Workings  of  the  soul  had  left  no  perceptible  trace  behind  them. 
People  who  saw  notliiiig  of  the  godly  but  their  uncouth  visages,  and 
heard  nothing  from  them  but  their  groans  and  their  whining  hymns, 
might  laugh  at  them.  But  those  had  little  reason  to  laugh  who  en- 
countered them  in  the  hall  of  debate  or  in  the  field  of  battle. 

These  fanatics  brought  to  civil  and  military  affairs  a  coolness  of 
judgment  and  an  immutability  of  purpose  which  some  ^vriters  have 
thought  inconsistent  with  their  religious  zeal,  but  which  were  in  fact 
the  necessary  effects  of  it.  The  intensity  of  their  feelings  on  one  sub- 
ject made  them  tranquil  on  every  other.  One  overpowering  sentiment 
had  subjected  to  itself  pity  and  hatred,  ambition  and  fear.  Death 
had  lost  its  terrors  and  pleasure  its  charms.  They  had  their  smiles 
and  their  tears,  their  raptures  and  their  sorrows,  but  not  for  the  things 
of  this  world.  Enthusiasm  had  made  them  Stoics,  had  cleared  their 
minds  from  every  vulgar  passion  and  prejudice,  and  raised  them  above 
the  influence  of  dangler  and  of  comiption.  It  sometimes  might  lead 
them  to  pursue  unwise  ends,  but  never  to  choose  unwise  means. 
They  went  through  the  world,  like  Sir  Artegal's  iron  man  Talus  with 
hU  flail,  crushing  and  trampling  down  oppressors,  mingling  with 
human  beings,  but  having  neither  part  nor  lot  in  human  infirmities, 
insensible  to  fatigue,  to  pleasure,  and  to  pain,  not  to  be  pierced  by 
any  weapon,  not  to  be  withstood  by  any  barrier. 

TEE  PSOORESS  OF  ENGLAND. 

The  liisiory  of  England  is  emphatically  the  history  of  progress. 
It  is  the  history  of  a  constant  movement  in  the  public  mind,  of  a  con- 
tant  change  in  the  institutions  of  a  great  society.     We  see  that 


140  (    \[  ll(    \  in  '<     I  If  )  I.  \  ;:  >      I'  I    ■-  :.ri,' 

society,  lit  the  beginiiiiig  oi  uir  iweiltli  cciitur},  in  a  state  more 
iiiisemble  than  the  stati;  in  which  the  most  dej^raded  nations  of  the 
East  now  are.  We  see  it  subjected  to  the  tyranny  of  a  handful  of 
armed  foreigners.  We  see  a  strong  distinction  of  caste  sepuratino- 
the  victorious  Norman  from  the  vanquished  Saxon.  We  see  tlie  greiit 
body  of  the  population  in  a  state  of  personal  shivery.  We  see  the 
most  debasing  and  cruel  superstition  exercising  boundless  dominion 
over  the  most  elevated  and  benevolent  minds.  We  see  the  multitude 
sunk  in  brutal  ignorance,  and  the  studious  few  engaged  in  acquiriiii: 
what  did  not  deserve  the  name  of  knowledge. 

In  the  course  of  seven  centuries  the  wretched  and  degraded  rac 
have  become  the  greatest  and  most  highly  civilized  people  that  ever 
the  world  saw,  —  have  spread  their  dominion  over  every  quarter  of  the 
globe, — have  scattered  the  seeds  of  mighty  empires  and  republic 
over  vast  continents  of  which  no  dim  intimation  had  ever  reached 
Ptolemy  ♦  or  Strabo,  f  —  have  eri*ated  a  maritime  power  which  would 
annihihite  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  navies  of  Tyre,  Athens,  Carthage, 
Venice,  and  Genoa  together,  —  have  carried  the  science  of  healino'. 
the  means  of  locomotion  and  correspondence,  every  mechanical  an 
every  manufacture,  everytliing  that  promotes  the  convenience  of  life, 
to  a  perfection  which  our  ancestors  would  have  thought  magical,  — 
have  produced  a  literature  which  may  boast  of  works  not  inferior  to 
the  noblest  which  Greece  has  bequeathed  to  us,  —  have  discovered 
the  laws  which  rt^gulate  the  motions  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  —  have 
speculated  with  exquisite  subtilty  on  the  operations  of  the  human 
mind, — have  been  the  acknowledged  leaders  of  the  human  race  in 
the  career  of  political  improvement. 

The  history  of  Engbnd  is  the  histoiy  of  this  great  change  in  the 
moral,  intellectual,  and  physical  state  of  the  inhabitants  of  our  own 
island.  There  is  much  amusing  and  instructive  episodical  matter,  but 
this  is  the  main  action.  To  us,  we  will  own,  nothing  is  so  interesting 
and  delightful  as  to  contemplate  the  steps  by  which  the  England  of  the 
Domesday  Book,  the  England  of  the  Curfew  and  the  Forest  Laws,  the 
England  of  crusaders,  monks,  schoolmen,  astrologers,  serfs,  dutlaws,  be- 
came the  England  which  we  know  and  love,  the  classic  ground  of  lib- 
erty and  philosophy,  the  school  of  all  knowledge,  the  mart  of  all  trade. 

*  Ptolemy.  The  founder  of  the  Greek  dynasty  of  kings  of  Egypt.  He  was  a  friend  of  Alex- 
ander the  Great,  and  like  him  was  a  great  warrior ;  he  was  noted  also  for  political  wisdom. 
Died  385  b.  c. 

+  Steabo.    An  eminent  Greek  geographer,  born  about  60  b.  c. 


MACAULAY.  HI 

BUHYAH'S  PUGRIX'S  PB0OBE88. 

The  characteristic  peculiarity  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  is,  that  it  is 
tlie  ouly  work  of  its  kind  which  possesses  a  strong  human  interest. 
Other  allegories  only  amuse  the  fancy.  The  aUcgory  of  Bunyan  has 
been  read  by  many  thousands  with  tears.  There  are  some  good  alle- 
gories in  Johnson's  works,  and  some  of  still  higher  merit  by  Addison. 
In  these  performances  there  is,  perhaps,  as  much  wit  and  ingenuity 
us  in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress.  But  the  pleasure  which  is  produced  by 
the  Vision  of  Mirza,  the  Vision  of  Theodore,  the  Genealogy  of  Wit, 
or  the  Contest  between  Rest  and  Labor,  is  exactly  similar  to  the  pleas- 
ure which  we  derive  from  one  of  Cowley's  odes  or  from  a  canto  of 
Hndibms.  It  is  a  plejisure  which  belongs  wholly  to  the  understand- 
ing, and  in  which  the  feelings  have  no  part  wliatever. 

It  is  not  so  with  the  Pilgrim's  Progress.  That  wonderful  book, 
while  it  obtains  admiration  from  the  most  fastidious  critics,  is  loved 
by  those  who  are  too  simple  to  admire  it.  Doctor  Johnson,  all  whose 
studies  were  desultory,  and  who  hated,  as  he  said,  to  read  books 
through,  made  an  exception  in  favor  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress.  That 
work,  he  said,  was  one  of  the  two  or  three  works  which  he  wished 
longer.  In  the  wildest  parts  of  Scotland  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  is 
the  delight  of  the  peasantry.  In  everj'  nursery  the  Pilgrim's  Progress 
is  a  ffreater  favorite  than  Jack  the  Giant-Killer.  Everv  reader  knows 
the  strait  and  narrow  path  as  well  as  he  knows  a  road  in  which  he 
has  gone  backward  and  fonvard  a  hundred  times.  This  is  the  high- 
est miracle  of  genius,  —  that  things  which  are  not  should  be  as  though 
they  were ;  that  the  imaginations  of  one  mind  should  become  the 
personal  recollections  of  another.  And  this  miracle  the  tinker  *  has 
wrought. 

Tlierc  is  no  ascent,  no  declivity,  no  resting-place,  no  turnstile, 
with  which  we  are  not  perfectly  acquainted.  The  wicket-gate,  and 
the  desolate  swamp  which  separates  it  from  the  City  of  Destruction  ; 
the  long  line  of  road,  as  straight  as  a  rule  can  make  it ;  the  Interpre- 
ter's hon.se  and  all  its  fair  shows ;  all  the  stages  of  the  journey,  all  the 
fonns  which  cross  or  overtake  the  pilgrims,  giants  and  hobgoblins,  ill- 
fa%'ored  ones  and  shining  ones  ;  the  tall,  comely,  swarthy  Madam  Bub- 
ble, with  her  great  j)nrse  by  her  side,  and  her  fingers  playing  with  the 
money ;  the  black  man  in  the  bright  vesture ;  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman 

*  Bonyui  wm  a  tinker. 


142  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

and  my  Lord  Hategood,  Mr.  Talkative  and  Mrs.  Timorous  ;  —  all  ai< 
actually  existing  beings  to  us.  We  follow  the  travelers  through  then 
allegorical  progress  with  interest  not  inferior  to  that  with  whicli  m\ 
follow  Elizabeth  from  Siberia  to  Moscow,  or  Jeanie  Deans  from  Edin- 
burgh to  London. 

Bunyan  is  almost  the  only  writer  that  ever  gave  to  the  abstract  the 
interest  of  the  concrete.  In  the  works  of  many  celebrated  authors 
men  are  mere  personifications.  We  have  not  an  Othello,  but  jeal- 
ousy ;  not  an  lago,  but  perfidy ;  not  a  Brutus,  but  patriotism.  The 
mind  of  Bunyan,  on  the  contrary,  was  so  imaginative  that  'personifi- 
cations, when  he  dealt  with  them,  became  men.  A  dialogue  between 
two  qualities,  in  his  dream,  has  more  dramatic  effect  than  a  dialogue 
between  two  human  beings  in  most  plays. 

The  style  of  Bunyan  is  delightful  to  every  reader,  and  invaluable  as 
a  study  to  every  person  who  wishes  to  obtain  a  wide  command  over 
the  English  language.  The  vocabiUary  is  the  vocabulary  of  the  com- 
mon people.  There  is  not  an  expression,  if  we  except  a  few  technical 
terms  of  theology,  which  would  puzzle  the  nidest  peasant.  We  have 
observed  several  pages  which  do  not  contain  a  single  word  of  more 
than  two  syllables.  Yet  no  writer  has  siid  more  exactly  what  he 
meant  to  say.  For  magnificence,  for  pathos,  for  vehement  exhorta- 
tion, for  subtile  disquisition,  for  every  purpose  of  the  poet,  the  orator, 
and  the  divine,  this  homely  dialect,  the  dialect  of  plain  workingmen. 
was  perfectly  sufficient.  There  is  no  book  in  our  literature  on  which 
we  would  so  readily  stake  the  fame  of  the  old  unpolluted  English 
language ;  no  book  which  shows  so  well  how  rich  that  language  is, 
in  its  own  proper  wealth,  and  how  little  it  has  been  improved  by  all 
that  it  has  borrowed. 

Cowper  said,  fifty  or  sixty  years  ago,  that  he  dared  not  name  John 
Bunyan  in  his  verse,  for  fear  of  moving  a  sneer.  We  live  in  better 
times ;  and  we  are  not  afraid  to  s:»y,  that  though  there  were  many 
clever  men  in  England  during  the  latter  half  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, there  were  only  two  great  creative  minds.  One  of  these  pro- 
duced the  Paradise  Lost,  the  other  the  Pilgrim's  Progress. 


BANCEOFT.  l48 

BANCROFT. 

1800- 

Geoige  Bajicrokt  was  born  in  Worcester,  MusarhuBetts.  in  1800.  He  recently  returned  from 
Berlin,  where  for  teverml  years  he  discharjced,  with  honor  to  himself  and  his  country,  the  duties 
of  United  States  Minister.  In  1817  he  graduated  at  Harvard,  bearing  off,  despite  his  tender  age, 
the  second  honors  of  his  class.  The  next  year  he  went  to  Germany,  where  he  studied  under  the 
direction  of  Heeren  and  Schlosser,  and  other  eminent  scholars.  He  prepared  himself  for  a  cleri- 
cal lilc  i  but  his  love  of  literature  was  stronger  than  hLt  "  drawing  "  to  the  pulpit,  and  he  soon 
abaiuluucd  the  idea  of  adopting  the  sacred  prule^tsiuu.  In  18;!3  he  made  his  lirst  public  literary 
(-KMV  m  a  volume  of  poems,  and,  in  the  next  Ibllowing  year,  put  forth  a  trauslationof  Heeren's 
Hfjieilmitt  vH  Uu  tolitxct  oj  Ancient  Greece.  About  this  time  he  associated  himself  with  the  late 
Dr.  Joseph  G.  Cogswell  in  the  cstablisLiiicut  of  the  Hound  Hill  School  at  JSorthamptou.  The 
duties  01'  a  pedagogue,  however,  proved  uncongenial  to  him,  and,  although  the  school  enjoyed  a 
fair  degree  oi  prosperity,  he  found  its  management  irksome,  and  turned  his  attention  to  politics, 
in  \iiS6  he  was  appointed  Collector  of  the  Port  of  Boston ;  was  an  unsuccessful  candidate  for 
Governor  of  Massachusetts  in  If^H,  and  in  1846  was  made  Secretary  of  the  Navy.  This  oOice 
be  held  about  one  year,  displaying  marked  ability  in  the  discharge  of  its  duties,  and  effecting 
maiiv  important  reforms  in  the  department.  In  1846  he  was  appointed  Minister  to  England, 
r...,!  >.  inained  abroad  till  18^19.  From  that  time  till  the  date  of  his  appointment  as  Minister  to 
iiv  President  Grant,  he  devoted  himself  assiduously  to  the  writing  of  his  History  of  th« 
'  .  .  I  StatM,  which  is  now  completed.  The  first  volume  of  this  work  was  published  in  18S1, 
and  ihc  succeeding  volumes,  down  to  the  tenth,  which  is  just  ready,  lyive  followed  at  long  inter- 
vals. It  is  safe  to  say  that  Mr.  Bancroft's  History  is  unrivaled  as  a  record  of  the  origin  and 
growth  of  the  United  States.  In  its  preparation,  or  at  least  in  that  of  those  volumes  which 
treat  of  the  years  immediately  preceding  the  Revolution,  he  had  the  use  of  a  vast  number  of 
manuscripts  to  which  no  earlier  historian  had  access.  His  natural  qualifications,  reinforced  by 
reading,  for  the  historian's  work  are  exceptionally  great.  It  lias  been  charged  by  some 
h  critics  that  his  democratic  prejudices  are  too  manifest  in  his  History;  but  this  allega- 
tion h!i3  had  little  weight  with  those  who  arc  most  competent  to  form  a  judgment  in  the  case,  — 
his  own  ronntnrmen  ;  and  his  judicial  candor  is  gmerally  reckoned  among  the  most  admirable 
romponcnts  of  his  intellectual  equipment.  His  style  has  received  warm  and  universal  praise  ;  it 
IS  niiinently  scholarly,  yet  not  pedantic,  brilliant,  yet  not  flashy,  in  narrative  animated  and 
picdircsqae,  and  in  philosophical  passages  masslTc  and  migestic.  This  history  is  one  of  the 
proudeat  monuments  of  American  scholarship. 

INDIAN   MASSACRES   OF  THE   EABLY   SETTLEKS. 

Between  the  Indians  and  the  English  there  had  been  quarrels, 
l)iit  no  wars.  From  the  first  landinp:  of  colonists  in  Virginia,  the 
power  of  the  natives  was  despised  :  their  strongest  weapons  were  such 
arrows  as  they  could  shape  without  the  use  of  iron,  such  hatchets  as 
could  be  made  from  stone ;  and  an  English  mastiff  seemed  to  them  a 
terrible  adversary.  Nor  were  their  nunil)ers  considerable.  Within 
sixty  miles  of  Jamestown, •  it  is  computed,  there  were  no  more  than 
five  thousand  souls,  or  about  fifteen  hundre<l  warriors.     The  whole 

*  JwRSTOwx.    A  town  in  Virginia,  on  the  James  Biver,  now  in  ruina.    The  first  EngUili 
sculemcnt  in  the  United  State*  was  nuide  here  in  1406. 


1  i  1  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

territory  of  the  clans  which  listened  to  Powhatan  ♦  as  their  leader  or 
their  conqueror  comprehended  about  eight  thousand  square  miles, 
thirty  tribes,  and  twenty-four  hundred  warriors ;  so  that  the  Indian 
population  amounted  to  about  one  inhabitant  to  a  sqimre  mile.  The 
natives,  naked  and  feeble  compared  with  the  Europeans,  were  nowhere 
concentrated  in  CQUsiderable  villages ;  but  dwelt  dispersed  in  hamlet.-, 
with  from  forty  to  sixty  in  each  company.  Few  places  had  more  than 
two  hundred,  and  many  had  less.  It  was  also  unusual  for  any  hr^e 
portion  of  these  tril^es  to  be  assembled  together.  An  idle  tale  of  an 
ambuscade  of  three  or  four  thousand  is  perhaps  an  error  for  three  or 
four  hundred  ;  otherwise  it  is  an  extravagant  fiction,  wholly  unworthy 
of  belief.  Smith  once  met  a  party,  that  seemed  to  amount  to  seven 
hundred ;  and  so  complete  was  the  superiority  conferred  by  the  use 
of  fire-arms,  that  with  fifteen  men  he  was  able  to  withstand  them  all. 

The  savages  were  therefore  regarded  with  contempt  or  compassion. 
No  uniform  care  had  been  taken  to  conciliate  their  good-will,  although 
their  condition  had  been  improved  by  some  of  the  arts  of  civilized  111' 
The  degree  of  their  advancement  may  be  judged  by  the  intelligent 
of  their  chieftain.  A  house  having  been  built  for  Opechancanougli 
after  the  English  fashion,  he  took  such  delight  in  the  lock  and  key, 
that  he  would  lock  and  unlock  the  door  a  hundred  times  a  day,  and 
thought  the  device  incomparable.  When  Wyatt  arrived,  the  natives 
expressed  a  fear  lest  his  intentions  should  be  hostile ;  he  assured 
them  of  his  wish  to  preserve  inviolable  peace,  and  the  emigrants  hatl 
no  use  for  fire-arms  except  against  a  deer  or  a  fowl.  Confidence  so 
far  increased  that  the  old  law  which  made  death  the  penalty  for 
teaching  the  Indians  to  use  the  musket  was  forgotten ;  and  they  were 
now  employed  as  fowlers  and  huntsmen.  The  plantations  of  the 
English  were  widely  extended,  in  unsuspecting  confidence,  along  the 
James  River  and  towards  the  Potomac,  wherever  rich  grounds  invited 
to  the  culture  of  tobacco ;  nor  were  solitary  places,  remote  from  neigh- 
bors, avoided;  since  there  would  there  be  less  competition  for  the 
ownership  of  the  soil. 

Powhatan,  the  father  of  Pocahontas,  remained,  after  the  marriage  of 
his  daughter,  the  firm  friend  of  the  English.  He  died  in  1618  ;  and 
his  younger  brother  was  now  the  heir  to  his  influence.     Should  the 

•  PowH.vTAN.  An  Indian  chief,  father  of  Pocahontas.  The  familiar  story  of  the  heroism  of 
Pocalmntas  in  saving  the  life  of  Captain  John  Smith  is  now  generally  considered  a  myth.  She 
married  John  Rolfe,  an  Englishman,  and  died  in  1617 


BANCROFT.  146 

native  occupants  of  the  soil  consent  to  be  driven  from  their  ancient 
piitriniony  ?  Should  tlieir  feebleness  submit  patiently  to  contempt, 
iiyury,  and  the  loss  of  their  lands  ?  The  desire  of  self-preservation, 
the  necessity  of  self-defense,  seemed  to  demand  an  active  resistance ; 
to  preserve  their  dwellin«(-places,  the  English  must  be  exterminatt^d ; 
in  open  battle  the  Indians  would  be  pjwerless ;  conscious  of  thiir 
weakness,  they  couUl  not  hope  to  accomplish  their  end  except  by  a 
preconcirted  surprise.  Tiie  crime  was  one  of  savage  ferocity  ;  but  it 
was  su^ested  by  their  situation.  They  were  timorous  and  quick  of 
apprehension,  and  consequently  treacherous  ;  for  treachery  and  false- 
hood are  the  vices  of  cowardice.  The  attack  was  prepared  with  im- 
penetrable secrecy.  To  the  very  last  hour  the  Indians  preserved  the 
language  of  friendship ;  they  borrowed  the  boats  of  the  English  to 
attend  their  own  assemblies ;  on  the  very  morning  of  the  massacre 
they  were  in  the  houses  and  at  the  tables  of  those  whose  death  they 
were  plotting.  "  Sooner,"  said  tliey,  "  shall  the  sky  fall,  than  peace 
be  viohited  on  our  part."  At  length,  on  the  22d  of  March  (1622), 
at  midday,  at  one  and  the  same  instant  of  time,  the  Indians  fell 
upon  an  unsuspecting  population,  which  was  scattered  through  dis- 
tant villages,  extending  one  hundred  and  forty  miles  on  both  sides 
of  the  river.  The  onset  was  so  sudden  that  the  blow  was  not  dis- 
cerned till  it  fell.  None  were  spared  ;  children  and  women,  as  well 
as  men ;  the  missionary,  who  had  cherished  the  natives  with  untiring 
gentleness ;  the  liberal  benefactors,  from  whom  they  had  received  daily 
benefits, — all  were  munlered  with  indiscriminate  barbarity,  and  every 
aggravation  of  cruelty.  The  savages  fell  upon  the  de^d  i)odies,  as  if 
it  had  been  possible  to  commit  ou  them  a  fresh  murder. 

In  one  hour  three  hundred  and  forty-seven  persons  were  cut  off. 
Yet  the  carnage  was  not  universal ;  and  Virginia  was  saved  from  so 
disastrous  a  grave.  The  night  before  the  execution  of  the  conspiracy 
it  was  revealed  by  a  converted  .  Indian  to  an  Englishman,  whom  he 
wislu'd  to  rescue;  Jamestown  and  the  nearest  settlements  were  well 
prt'iKired  against  an  attack ;  and  the  savages,  as  timid  as  they  were 
ferocious,  fled  with  precipitation  from  the  appearance  of  wakeful  re- 
sistance.    Thus  the  larger  part  of  the  colony  was  saved. 


146  "   cathcart's  liteeaey  reader. 

the  discovery  of  the  mississippi  river. 

All  the  disasters  which  had  been  encountered,  far  from  diminish- 
ing the  boldness  of  De  Soto,*  served  only  to  confirm  his  obstinacy 
by  wounding  his  pride.  Should  he,  who  had  promised  greater  booty 
than  Mexico  or  Peru  had  yielded,  now  return  as  a  defeated  fugitive, 
so  naked  that  his  troops  were  clad  only  in  skins  and  mats  of  ivy  ? 
The  search  for  some  wealthy  region  was  renewed ;  the  caravan 
marched  still  farther  to  the  west. 

For  seven  days  it  struggled  through  a  wilderness  of  forests  ami 
marshes,  and  at  length  came  to  Indian  settlements  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  Mississippi.  The  lapse  of  nearly  three  centuries  has  not  clianged 
the  character  of  the  stream.  It  was  then  described  as  more  than  a 
mile  broa<l,  flowing  with  a  strong  curr^mt,  and,  by  the  weight  of  its 
waters,  forcing  a  channel  of  great  depth.  The  water  was  always 
muddy  ;  trees  and  timber  were  continually  floating  down  the  stream. 

The  Spaniards  were  guided  to  the  Mississippi  by  the  natives ;  and 
were  directed  to  one  of  the  usual  crossing-places,  probably  at  the 
lowest  Chickasa  Bluff,  not  far  from  the  thirty-fifth  parallel  of  lati- 
tude. The  arrival  of  the  strangers  awakened  curiosity  and  fear.  A 
multitude  of  people  from  the  western  banks  of  the  river,  painted 
and  gayly  decorated  %vith  great  plumes  of  white  feathers,  the  warriors 
standing  in  rows  with  bow  and  arrows  in  their  hands,  the  chieftains 
sitting  under  awnings  as  magnificent  as  the  artless  manufactures  of 
the  natives  could  weave,  came  rowing  down  the  stream  in  a  fleet  of 
two  hundred  canoes,  seeming  to  the  admiring  Spaniards  "  like  a  fair 
army  of  galleys." 

They  brought  gifts  of  fish  and  loaves  made  of  the  fruit  of  the 
persimmon.  At  first  they  showed  some  desire  to  offer  resistance ; 
but,  soon  becoming  conscious  of  their  relative  weakness,  they  ceased 
to  defy  an  enemy  who  could  not  be  overcome,  and  suffered  injury 
without  attempting  open  retaliation.  The  boats  of  the  natives  were 
too  weak  to  transport  horses ;  almost  a  month  expired  before  barges 
large  enough  to  hold  three  horsemen  each  were  constructed  for  cross- 
ing the  river.  At  length  the  Spaniards  embarked  upon  the  Missis- 
sippi, and  were  borne  to  its  western  bank. 

♦  Heknando  de  Soto.  A  Spanish  explorer,  bom  atout  1500,  discovered  the  Mississippi 
River  in  1541,  and  died  in  Louisiana  in  1542.  He  was  one  of  the  boldest  and  bravest  of  the  many 
brave  leaders  who  figured  in  the  discoveries,  and  distinguished  themselves  in  the  wild  warfare 
of  the  Western  World. 


BANCBOFT.  147 

The  Dacotah  tribes,  doubtless,  then  occupied  the  country  south- 
west of  the  Missouri.  De  Soto  had  heard  its  praises ;  he  believed  in 
its  vicinity  to  mineral  wealth,  and  he  dett-nnined  to  visit  its  towns. 
In  ascending  the  Mississippi  the  pjirty  was  often  obliged  to  wade 
tliKuii^h  morasses;  at  length  they  came,  as  it  would  seem,  upon  the 
(list net  of  Little  Prairie,  and  the  dry  and  elevated  lands  which  extend 
towards  New  Madrid. 

Here  the  religions  of  the  invaders  and  the  natives  came  in  contrast, 
rbe  Spaniards  were  adored  as  children  of  the  sun,  and  the  blind  were 
l)rought  into  their  presence,  to  be  healed  by  the  sons  of  light.  "  Pray 
only  to  God,  who  is  in  heaven,  for  whatsoever  ye  need,"  said  De  Soto 
in  reply ;  and  the  sublime  doctrine  which,  thousands  of  years  before, 
had  been  proclaimed  in  the  deserts  of  Arabia,  now  first  found  its 
way  into  the  prairies  of  the  Far  West. 

The  wild  fruits  of  that  region  were  abundant ;  the  pecan-nut,  the 
mulberry,  and  the  two  kinds  of  wild  plums,  furnished  the  natives  with 
ii-ticles  of  food.  At  Pacaha,  the  northernmost  point  which  De  Soto 
ri'ached  near  the  Mississippi,  he  remained  forty  days.  Tlie  spot 
cannot  be  identified  ;  but  the  accounts  of  the  amusements  of  the 
Spaniards  confirm  the  truth  of  the  narrative  of  their  ramblings. 
Fish  were  taken,  such  as  are  now  found  in  the  fresh  waters  of  that 
region ;  one  of  them,  the  spade  fish,  —  the  strangest  and  most  whira- 
ical  production  of  the  muddy  streams  of  the  west,  so  rare  that,  even 
(>w,  it  is  hardly  to  l)e  found  in  any  museum,  —  is  accurately  de- 
bribed  by  the  l)est  historian  of  the  expedition. 

.\n  exploring  party,  which  was  sent  to  examine  the  regions  to  the 
north,  reported  that  they  were  almost  a  desert.  Tlie  country  still 
nearer  the  Missouri  was  said  by  the  Indians  to  be  thinly  inhabited ; 
the  bison  abounded  there  so  much  that  no  maize  could  be  cultivated, 
ind  the  few  inhabitants  were  hunters.  De  Soto  turned,  therefore,  to 
I  lie  west  and  northwest,  and  plunged  still  more  deeply  into  the  inte- 
rior of  the  continent.  The  highlands  of  White  River,  more  than 
two  hundnnl  miles  from  the  Mississippi,  were  probably  the  limit  of  his 
ramble  in  this  direction.  • 

The  mountains  offere<l  neither  gems  nor  gold  ;  and  the  disappointed 

adventurers  marchwl  to  the  south.     They  passed  through  a  succession 

of  towns,  of  which  the  position  cannot  be  fixed,  till  at  length  we  find 

them  among  the  Tunicas,  near  the  hot  springs  and  sjdine  tributaries 

>f  the  Washita.     It  was  at  Autiamque,  a  town  on  the  same  river. 


148  CATHCART's    literary    K1M)1  i:. 

iliat    tlicv    passed    the    wiiit.r;     tlicy    liad    arrived    at     llic    settlement 
llirouj^li    the   cDiiiitiv    of  iIm^   Kappasv.-.. 

The  iiaiiv<  trilx  -.  cvny where  on  the  route,  were  found  in  a  state  of 
eivilization  beyond  lliat  of  nouiadic  hordes.  They  were  an  agricul- 
tural people,  will  1  fi\«'<l  ])la('rs  of  abode,  and  subsish'd  upon  ihc.  pro. 
(luce  of  the  field-  iiini-c  iliaii  ii{»uii  ihc  cliax-.  I-iioraiil  of  lli.  ;.r 
of  life,  they  <()idd  oiler  no  resistance  to  their  unwelcome  visitors;  the 
bow  and  arrow  uc  r.  the  most  effective  weapons  with  which  they  were 
ac(iiiaiiiicd.  Tiny  scfiii  not  to  have  bem  turbulmt  or  (juarrelsome  ; 
but  as  the  population  was  moderate,  and  the  earth  I'ruiLt'ul,  the  tribes 
wt  li  not  accustomed  to  contend  with  each  other  for  the  possession  of 
territories. 

Their  dress  was.  in  pirt,  mats  wroiiLrlil  of  ivy  and  bulrushes,  or  of 
the  bark  and  lint  of  ti-cc-:  in  t-old  wcatlnr  tli.'_\  wore  mantlrs  woven 
of  feathers.  The  settlements  were  by  tribes,  —  each  tribe  occupied 
what  the  Spaniards  called  a  province ;  their  villaires  were  generally 
near  to-jft  tin  r.  but  were  composed  of  few  habitations  The  Spaniards 
treated  them  with  no  other  forbearance  than  their  own  seltishness  de- 
manded, and  enshived  such  as  offend td,  employing  them  as  porters 
and  guides. 

On  a  slight  suspicion,  they  would  cut  off  the  hands  of  numbers  of 
tilt  iiiiiMs,  for  punishment  or  intimidation;  while  the  young  cava- 
lit  rs.  from  desire  of  seeming  valiant,  ceased  to  be  mercifid,  and  ex- 
ulted in  ( ruelties  and  carnage.  The  guide  who  was  unsuccessful,  or 
who  purpov.ly  led  them  away  from  the  settlements  of  his  tribe,  would 
be  seized  and  tlirown  to  the  hounds.  Sometimes  a  native  was  con- 
demned to  the  flames.  Any  trifling  consideration  of  safety  would 
induie  the  governor  to  set  fire  to  a  handet.  He  did  not  delight  in 
cruelly  :  but  the  happiness,  the  life,  and  the  rights  of  the  Indians 
were  held  of  no  account.  The  approach  of  the  Spaniards  was  heard 
with  dismay  :  and  their  departure  hastened  by  the  suggestion  of 
wealthier  lands  at  a  distance. 

In  the  spring  of  the  following  year  De  Soto  determined  to  descend 
the  Washita  to  its  junction,  aiyl  to  get  tidings  of  the  sea.  As  he 
advanced  he  was  soon  lost  amidst  the  bayous  and  marshes  which  are 
found  along-  the  Red  lliver  and  its  tributaries.  Near  the  Missis- 
sip])i  he  came  upon  the  country  of  Nilco,  which  was  well  peopled. 
Till'  river  was  there  larger  than  the  Guadalquiver  at  Seville.  At 
last  he  arriveil  at  the  province   where   the  Washita,  already   united 


BANciioirr.  149 

with  tlw  Red  River,  enters  the  Mississippi.  The  province  was 
calUtl  Guachoya. 

l)e  Soto  anxiously  inquired  the  distance  to  the  sea ;  the  chieftain 
of  Guaclioya  could  not  teU.  Were  there  settlements  extending  along 
the  river  to  its  mouth  ?  It  was  answered  that  its  lower  banks  were 
an  uninhabited  waste.  Unwilling  to  believe  so  disheartening  a  tale, 
De  Soto  sent  one  of  his  men  with  eight  horsemen  to  descend  the 
banks  of  the  Mississippi,  and  explore  the  country.  Tliey  traveled 
eight  days,  and  were  able  to  advance  not  much  more  than  thirty  Eiiles, 
they  were  so  delayed  by  the  frequent  bayous,  the  impassable  cane- 
brakes,  and  the  dense  woods. 

The  governor  received  the  intelligence  with  concern  ;  he  suffered 
from  anxiety  and  gloom.  His  horses  and  men  were  dying  around 
him,  80  that  the  natives  were  becoming  dangerous  enemies.  He  at- 
tempted to  overawe  a  tribe  of  Indians  near  Natchez  by  claiming  a 
sup«'riiatural  birth,  and  demanding  obedience  and  tribute.  "  You  say 
you  are  the  child  of  the  sun,"  replied  the  undaunted  chief;  "  dry  up 
the  river,  and  I  will  believe  you.  Do  you  desire  to  see  me?  Visit 
tlie  town  where  I  dwell.  If  you  come  in  peace,  I  will  receive  you 
with  special  good-will ;  if  in  war,  I  will  not  shrink  one  foot  back.'* 

But  De  Soto  was  no  longer  able  to  abate  the  confidenc<f  or  punish 
the  temerity  of  the  natives.  His  stubborn  pride  was  changed  by  long 
disappointments  into  a  w^asting  melancholy ;  and  his  health  sunk 
rapidly  and  entirely  under  a  conflict  of  emotions.  A  malignant  fever 
ensued,  during  which  he  had  little  comfort,  and  was  neither  visited 
nor  attended  as  the  last  hours  of  life  demand.  Believing  his  death 
near  at  hand,  he  held  the  last  solemn  intei-view  with  his  faithful 
followers  ;  and,  yielding  to  the  wishes  of  his  companions,  who  obeyed 
him  to  the  end,  he  named  a  successor.     On  the  next  day  he  died. 


k 


150  cathcaet's  literary  reader. 

EMERSON. 
1803- 

Ealph  Waldo  Emeuoh  wu  born  in  Boston  in  1803.  He  gndoatcd  at  Harrard  Colle^  ir^ 
192\,  and,  a/l«r  pursuing  a  course  of  theological  study,  was  ordained  pastor  of  the  Second  1 11 
tarian  Chnrch  of  Boston.  His  ministry  was  brief,  bowerer :  a  difference  of  opinion  as  to  points 
of  doctrine  arose  between  himself  and  his  i>eople,  and  he  resigned  his  charge.  Retiring  to  tlu- 
town  of  Concord,  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  study  of  mental  and  moral  philosophy.  His  tirst 
published  writings  —  Man  TkitUcinff,  Literary  Etkict,  and  Mature,  an  Buay  —  instantly  attracted 
the  attention  of  thoughtful  readers,  and  he  at  once  took  the  position  of  a  leader  of  philosophical 
opinbn,  not  only  in  this  country  but  in  England.  In  1847  he  published  liis  tirst  volume  ot 
poems.  He  is  best  known  by  his  Essays  and  his  Representative  Men.  His  impress  on  the  thought 
of  his  time  has  been  deep  and  lasting ;  he  has  founded  a  school  of  philosophy  and  a  literary 
style  which  arc  called  Emersonian;  and  though  he  has  failed  to  win  a  numerous  following,  he 
hat  doM  much  towards  molding  the  ethical  opinions  of  New  England,  and,  iu  a  less  degree, 
of  the  whole  country.  II  ts  influence  has  not  been  limited  to  his  own  country.  His  books  hare 
been  widely  read  in  England  and  Germany,  and  during  his  several  visits  to  Europe  he  has  been 
received  by  the  foremost  representatives  of  modem  culture  with  the  honors  due  to  one  of  the 
master-minds  of  the  age.  His  style  can  hardly  be  recommended  as  a  model,  though  it  possesses 
many  striking  beauties.  In  order  thoroughly  to  appreciate  it,  one  mnst  be  in  such  full  sympathy 
with  the  writer's  spirit  as  it  is  the  privilege  of  few  to  attain. 

HAPOLEON  BONAPABTE. 

Napoleon  understood  his  business.  Here  was  a  man  who  in  each 
moment  and  emergency  knew  what  to  do  next.  It  is  an  immense 
comfort  and  refreshment  to  the  spirits,  not  only  of  kings,  but  of 
citizens.  Few  men  have  any  next;  they  live  from  hand  to  mouth, 
without  plan,  and  are  ever  at  the  end  of  their  line,  and,  after  each 
action,  wait  for  an  impulse  from  abroad.  Napoleon  had  been  the 
first  man  of  the  world,  if  his  ends  had  been  purely  public.  As  he  is, 
he  inspires  copfidence  and  vigor  by  the  extraordinary  unity  0^  his 
action. 

He  is  firm,  sure,  self-denying,  self-postponing,  sacrificing  every- 
thing to  his  aim,  —  money,  troops,  generals,  and  his  own  safety  also  ; 
not  misle<l,  like  common  adventurers,  by  the  splendor  of  his  own 
means.  "  Incidents  ought  not  to  govern  policy,"  he  said,  "  but  pol- 
icy incidents."  "To  be  hurried  away  by  every  event,  is  to  have  no 
political  system  at  all."  His  victories  were  only  so  many  doors,  and 
he  never  for  a  moment  lost  sight  of  his  way  onward  in  the  dazzle  and 
nproar  of  the  present  circumstance.  He  knew  what  to  do,  and  he 
flew  to  his  mark. 

He  would  shorten  a  straight  line  to  come  at  his  object.     Horriblt- 


EMERSON. 


151 


amalou  5  m.iv,  no  doubt,  be  collected  from  his  history,  of  the  price 
at  which  he  bought  his  successes ;  but  he  must  not,  therefore,  be  set 
down  as  cruel,  but  only  as  one  who  knew  no  impediment  to  his  will : 
not  bloodthirsty,  not  cruel ;  but  woe  to  what  thin":  or  person  stood  in 
his  way  !  "  Sire,  General  Clarke  caimot  combine  with  General  Junot 
for  the  dreatlful  fire  of  the  Austrian  battery."  "  Let  him  carry  the 
battery."  "Sire,  every  regiment  that  approaches  the  heavy  artillery 
is  sacrificed.     Sire,  what  orders  ?  "     "  Forward  !  forward  !  " 

In  the  plenitude  of  his  resources  every  obstacle  seemed  to  vanish. 
There  shall  be  no  Alps,"  he  said  ;  and  he  built  his  perfect  roads, 
I  limbing  by  graded  galleries  their  steepest  precipices,  until  Italy  was 
as  open  to  Paris  as  any  town  in  France.  Having  decided  what  was 
()  be  done,  he  did  that  with  might  and  main.  He  put  out  all  his 
~trenj::th.  He  risked  everything,  and  spared  nothing,  —  neither  am- 
munition, nor  money,  nor  troops,  nor  generals,  nor  himself.  If  fight- 
ing be  the  best  mode  of  adjusting  national  difl'erences  (as  large  ma- 
jorities  of  men  seem  to  agree),  certainly  Bonaparte  was  right  in  making 
It  thorough. 

•*  The  grand  principle  of  war,"  he  said,  "  was,  that  an  army  ought 
ihvays  to  Ik*  ready,  by  day  and  by  night,  and  at  all  hours,  to  make 
ill  the  resistance  it  is  cjipable  of  making."  He  never  economized  his 
ammunition,  but  on  a  hostile  position  rained  a  torrent  of  iron,  — 
hells,  balls,  grape-shot,  —  to  annihilate  all  defense.  He  went  to  the 
(Ige  of  his  possibility,  so  heartily  was  he  bent  on  his  object.  It  is 
plain  that  in  Italy  he  did  what  he  could,  and  all  that  he  could  ;  he 
eame  several  times  within  an  inch  of  ruin,  and  his  own  person  was  all 
but  lost.  He  was  flung  into  the  marsh  at  Areola.*  The  Austrians 
were  between  him  and  his  troops  in  the  confusion  of  the  struggle,  and 
he  was  brought  off  with  desperate  eff'orts.  At  Lonato,t  and  at  other 
places,  he  was  on  the  point  of  being  taken  prisoner. 

He  fought  sixty  battles.  He  had  never  enough.  Each  victory 
w.:8  a  new  weapon.  '*  My  power  would  fall,  were  I  not  to  support  it 
by  new  achievements.  Conquest  has  made  me  what  I  am,  and  con- 
quest must  maintain  me."  He  felt,  with  every  wise  man,  that  as 
umch  life  is  needed  for  conservation  as  for  creation.  We  are  always 
in  peril,  always  in  a  bod  plight,  just  on  the  edge  of  destruction,  and 
only  to  b.'  saved  by  invention  and  courage.     This  vigor  was  guardetl 


k 


*  AicoLA.    A  rillajre  of  NorUiPra  Italy. 

\  LoKATa    A  •mall  town  near  Lake  Garda  in  Lai  v. 


152  CATHCART^S    LITERARY    READER. 

and  tempered  by  the  coldest  prudence  and  punctuality.     A  thundi 
bolt  in  the  attiick,  he  was  found  invulnerable  in  his  intrenclinients. 
His  very  attack  was  never  the  inspiration  of  courage,  but  the  result  of 
calculation.     His  idea  of  the  best  defense  consisted  in  being  always 
the  attacking  party.     "My  ambition,"  he  says,  "was  great,  but  \\ 
of  a  cold  nature." 

Everything  depended  on  the  nicety  of  his  combinations :  the  stjirs 
were  not  more  punctual  than  his  arithmetic.  His  personal  attention 
descended  to  the  smallest  particulars.  **  At  Montebello  I  ordered 
Kellcrmann  to  attack  with  eight  hundred  horse ;  and  with  these  he 
separated  the  six  thousand  Hungarian  grenadiers  before  the  very  eyes 
of  the  Austrian  cavalry.  This  cavalry  was  half  a  league  off,  and  re- 
quired a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  arrive  on  the  field  of  actioii ;  and  1 
have  observed  it  is  always  these  quarters  of  an  hour  that  decide  the 
fate  of  a  battle." 

Before  he  fought  a  battle  Bonaparte  thought  little  about  what  he 
should  do  in  case  of  success,  but  a  great  deal  about  what  he  should 
do  in  case  of  a  reverse  of  fortune.  The  same  prudence  and  good 
sense  mcrked  all  his  behavior.  His  instructions  to  his  secretary  at 
the  palace  are  worth  remembering:  "During  the  night,  enter  my 
chamber  as  seldom  as  possible.  Do  not  awake  me  when  you  have 
any  good  news  to  communicate ;  with  that  there  is  no  hurry :  but 
when  you  bring  bad  news,  rouse  me  instantly,  for  then  there  is  not 
a  moment  to  l)e  lost."  His  achievement  of  business  was  immense, 
and  enlarges  the  known  powers  of  man.  There  have  been  many 
working  kings,  from  Ulysses  to  William  of  Orange,  but  none  who 
accomplished  a  tithe  of  this  man's  performance. 

To  these  gifts  of  nature  Napoleon  added  the  advantage  of  having 
been  born  to  a  private  and  humble  fortune.  In  his  later  days  he  had 
the  weakness  of  wishing  to  add  to  his  crowns  and  Imdges  the  pre- 
scription of  aristocracy ;  but  he  knew  his  debt  to  his  austere  edu- 
cation, and  made  no  secret  of  his  contempt  for  the  born  kings,  and 
for  "  the  hereditary  donkeys,"  as  he  coarsely  styled  the  Bourbons. 
He  said  that,  in  their  exile,  "  they  had  learned  nothing,  and  forgot 
nothing."  Bonaparte  had  passed  through  all  the  degrees  of  military 
service ;  but,  also,  was  citizen  l^fore  he  was  emperor,  and  so  had  the 
key  to  citizenship.  His  remarks  and  estimates  discovered  the  infor- 
mation and  justness  of  measurement  of  the  middle  class. 

Those  who  had  to  deal  with  him  found  that  he  was  not  to  be  im- 


EMERSON.  153 

l>(>st?d  upon,  but  could  cipher  ns  well  as  anotlicr  man.     When  the 

xpenses  of  the  empress,  of  his  household,  of  his  palaces,  had  accurau- 

iied  jp-eat  debts,  Napoleon  examined  the  bills  of  the  creditors  him- 

If,  detected  overcharges  and  errors,  and  reduced  the  claims  by  con- 

ilerable  sums.     His  j^rand  weapon,  namely,  the  millions  whom  he 

lirected,  he  owed  to  the  representative  character  which  clothed  him. 

He  interests  us  as  he  stands  for  France  and  for  Europe ;  and  he  exists 

>  captain  and  king  only  as  far  as  the  Revolution  or  the  interests  of 

lie  industrious  masses  found  an  organ  and  a  leader  in  him. 

In  the  social  interests  he  knew  the  meaning  and  value  of  labor,  and 
threw  himself  naturally  on  that  side.  The  principal  works  that  have 
survived  him  are  his  magnificent  roads.  He  filled  his  troops  with  his 
spirit,  and  a  sort  of  firecdom  and  companionship  grew  up  between 
him  and  them,  which  the  forms  of  his  court  never  permitted  between 
the  officers  and  himself.  They  performed  under  his  eye  that  which 
no  others  could  do.  The  best  document  of  his  relation  to  his  troops 
is  the  order  of  the  day  on  the  morning  of  the  battle  of  Austerlitz,  in 
which  Napoleon  promises  the  troops  that  he  will  keep  his  person  out 
of  reach  of  fire.  Tliis  declaration,  which  is  the  reverse  of  that  ordi- 
narily made  by  generals  and  sovereigns  on  the  eve  of  a  battle,  suffi- 
ciently explains  the  devotion  of  the  army  to  their  leader. 

GOOD  BT,   PaOUD  WOELD ! 

Good  by,  proud  world  !     I  'm  going  home  ; 

Thou  art  not  my  friend ;  1  am  not  thine  : 
Too  long  through  weary  crowds  I  roam,  — 

A  river  ark  on  the  ocean  brine. 
Too  long  I  am  tossed  like  the  driven  foam ; 
But  now,  proud  world,  I  'm  going  home. 

Grood  by  to  Flattery's  fawning  face  ; 
To  Grandeur  with  his  wise  grimace : 
To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye  ; 
To  supple  Office,  low  and  high  ; 
To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street, 
To  frozen  hearts,  and  hasting  feet. 
To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come, 
Good  by,  proud  world,  I  *n)  going  home. 
7* 


lOi  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

I  go  to  seek  my  own  hearth-stone, 
Bosomed  in  yon  green  hills  alone ; 
A  secret  lodge  in  a  plciisant  land, 
Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  planned, 
Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day. 
Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay, 
And  evil  men  have  never  ti-od 
A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  God. 

O,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
I  mock  at  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Rome ; 
And  when  I  am  stretched  beneath  the  pines. 
Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 
I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  the  pride  of  man. 
At  the  sophist  schools,  and  the  learnetl  clan ; 
For  what  are  they  all  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet  ? 

THE  SEA. 

Behold  the  Sea, 
Tlie  opaline,  the  plentiful  and  strong, 
Yet  beautiful  as  is  the  rose  in  June, 
Fresh  as  the  trickling  rainbow  of  July  : 
Sea  full  of  food,  the  nourisher  of  kinds, 
Purger  of  earth,  and  medicine  of  men  ; 
Creating  a  sweet  climate  by  my  breath. 
Washing  out  harms  and  griefs  from  memoiy. 
And,  in  my  mathematic  ebb  and  flow. 
Giving  a  hint  of  that  which  changes  not. 
Rich  are  the  sea-gods  :  —  who  gives  gifts  but  they  ? 
They  gi-ope  the  sea  for  pearls,  but  more  than  pearls  : 
They  pluck  Force  thence,  and  give  it  to  the  wise. 
For  every  wave  is  weiilth  to  Daedalus, 
Wealth  to  the  cunning  artist  who  can  work 
This  matchless  strength.     Where  shall  he  find,  O  waves ! 
A  load  your  Atlas  shoulders  cannot  lift  ? 


HAWTHORNE.  165 

HAWTHORNE. 

1804- 1864. 

NATOAifiKL  H\frrHORi«R,  the  most  hrilluint  and  original  writer  of  romance  that  America  has 
jti  producnl.  was  born  in  Salem  in  WH  and  died  in  1861.  He  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College 
hlttS.  being  a  cUusniate  of  Henry  Wadaworth  Longfellow.  He  began  to  write  at  an  early 
i|l{  tat  hui  trat  eSbrta  received  little  encouragement  Modest,  retiring,  and  singularly  srnsi- 
INb.  ke  wu  oawilling  to  tbnut  himself  forward,  but  patiently  awaited  the  recognition  of  hia 
d^ms  to  literary  honors,  and  the  rewards  which  accrue  to  the  successful  author.  During  the 
mAj  years  of  his  manhood  he  filled  offteea  in  the  Custom  Houses  of  Boston  and  Salem ;  but  while 
diidurging  his  dntiea  with  tidflity,  he  gave  his  tliought  and  heart  to  literar>-  labor.  His  first 
hook,  TVrur*  TM  Tales,  found  few  readers ;  and  it  may  be  said  that  ten  years  after  its  publira- 
tioa  his  name  would  hardly  have  found  a  place  in  a  catalogue  of  American  writers.  In  The 
SearUt  Letter,  howerer,  he  vindicated  bis  right  to  the  title  of  author,  and  from  the  publication 
of  that  book  his  reputation  steadily  and  rapidly  increased  in  brilliancy.  In  185'i  he  was  ap- 
IMMBted  Consul  to  Liverpool  by  his  friend  and  classmate,  President  Pierce,  and  held  tlmt  office 
WTcral  years,  receiving  flattering  attentions  in  the  most  cultivated  circles  of  England.  During 
his  residence  in  that  country  he  gathered  material  for  Our  Old  Home,  one  of  the  most  deliglitful 
leeords  of  travel  and  observation  ever  written.  At  the  expiration  of  his  term  of  office  he  pn>- 
CMded  to  Italy,  where  he  lived  for  some  time,  and,  as  the  fruit  of  this  sojourn,  gave  to  tlie  world 
fl«  MmrkU  Faun.  During  the  last  years  of  his  life  the  condition  of  his  health  obliged  him  to 
•bstktn,  measurably,  from  literary  work  ;  but  he  left  behind  him  several  chapters  of  The  Dollhcr 
Mtmame*  which  warrant  the  opinion  that  the  completed  work  would  have  been  his  masterpiece. 
Sereral  years  after  his  death  there  was  discovered  among  his  papers  the  manuscript  o(  S-pthnius 
Ftitom,  a  weird  and  repulsive,  but  strikingly  characteristic,  story.  Mr.  Hawthorne  died  at  Ply- 
■oath.  New  Hampshire,  while  on  a  journey  with  Ex-President  Pierce. 

On  the  whole,  Hawthorne  must  be  esteemed  the  foremost  writer  of  prose  among  Americans ; 
Ud  it  would  not  be  easy  to  select  a  name  from  the  crowded  annals  of  English  literature  that  is 
More  ckMclyaad  honorably  associated  with  the  marriage  of  fine  tlionghts  to  tine  language, 
vhich  eonstitates  the  charm  of  prose.  As  a  romanrist,  he  stands  alone  and  unapproachrd.  His 
psychological  insight  was  simply  marvelous,  and  gave  a  distinguishing  and  inimitable  character 
Id  all  his  writings.  The  dark  side  of  thinfN  especially  attracted  him  ;  he  dwelt  broodin^ly  and 
with  the  devotion  of  an  enthusiast  upon  abnormal  manifcjitations  of  human  nature,  and  delighted 
ia  delineating  the  intricacies  of  human  passion.  Yet  to  those  who  knew  him  intimately  he  was 
MUBently  tovable ;  and  in  his  writings  one  can  catch  glimpses  of  moods  of  genuine  sunny 
haaor.  His  style  is  remarkable  for  iU  purity  and  gracefulness.  Tk€  Scarlet  Letter  and  Tie 
Hmut  <^  Tke  Severn  GahUa  are  generally  esteemed  his  best  works.  The  extracts  are  from  Our  Old 
Bmt  and  Moue$fnm  mm  OU  Manse. 

erne  BANQUETS  IN  ENGLAND. 

It  has  often  perplexed  me  to  imagine  how  an  Englishman  will  be 
able  to  reconcile  himself  to  any  fntiire  state  of  existence  from  which 
the  earthly  institution  of  dinner  shall  Ix^  excluded.  Even  if  he  fail  to 
take  hi?  appetite  along  with  him  (which  it  seems  to  me  hanlly  possi- 
ble to  believe,  since  this  endowment  is  so  essential  to  his  composition), 
•'le  immortal  day  must  still  admit  an  interim  of  two  or  three  hours 
iiiring  which  he  will  l)e  conscious  of  a  slight  distaste,  at  all  events, 
not  an  absolute  repugnance,  to  merely  spiritual  nutriment.     The 


166  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

idea  of  dinner  has  80  ini1)edded  itself  among  his  highest  and  deep- 
est characteristics,  so  illuminated  itself  with  intellect  and  softened 
itself  with  the  kindest  emotions  of  his  heiirt,  so  linked  itself  with 
C'hurch  and  State,  and  grown  so  majestic  with  long  hereditary  cus- 
toms and  ceremonies,  that  by  taking  it  utterly  away,  Death,  instead 
of  putting  the  final  touch  to  his  perfection,  would  leave  him  infinitely 
less  complete  than  we  have  already  known  him.  In  this  connection 
I  should  be  glad  to  invite  the  n^der  to  the  official  dinner-table  of 
his  Worship  the  Mayor,  at  a  krge  English  seaport  where  I  speut 
several  years. 

The  Mayor's  dinner-parties  occur  as  of^en  as  once  a  fortnight,  and, 
inviting  his  guests  by  fifty  or  sixty  at  a  time,  his  Worship  probably 
assembles  at  his  board  most  of  the  eminent  citizens  and  distiiignished 
personages  of  the  town  and  neighborhood  more  than  once  during  his 
year's  incumbency,  and  very  much,  no  doubt,  to  the  promotion  of 
gocnl  feeling  among  individuals  of  opposite  parties  aiul  diverse  pur- 
suits in  life.  A  miscellaneous  party  of  Englishmen  can  always  find 
more  comfortable  ground  to  meet  upon  than  as  many  Americans, 
their  differences  of  opinion  being  incomparably  less  radical  than  ours, 
and  it  being  the  sincerest  wish  of  all  their  hearts,  whether  they  call 
themselves  Liberals  or  what  not,  that  nothing  in  this  world  shall  ever 
be  greatly  altered  from  what  it  has  been  and  is.  Thus  there  is 
seldom  such  a  vindence  of  political  hostility  that  it  may  not  be  dis- 
solved in  a  glass  or  two  of  wine,  without  making  the  good  liquor 
any  more  dry  or  bitter  than  accords  with  English  taste. 

The  first  dinnei  of  this  kind  at  which  I  had  the  honor  to  be  present 
took  place  during  assize-time,  and  included  among  the  guests  the 
judges  and  the  prominent  members  of  the  bar.  Reaching  the  Town 
Hall  at  seven  o'clock,  I  communicated  my  name  to  one  of  several 
splendidly  dres.sed  footmen,  and  he  repeated  it  to  another  on  the  first 
stairc^ise,  by  Avnom  it  was  passed  to  a  third,  and  thence  to  a  fourth  at' 
the  door  of  tl-e  reception-room,  losing  all  resemblance  to  the  original 
sound  in  the  course  of  these  transmissions ;  so  that  I  had  the  advan- 
tage of  making  my  entrance  in  the  character  of  a  stranger,  not  only 
to  the  whole  company,  but  to  myself  as  well.  His  Worship,  however, 
kindly  recognized  me,  and  put  me  on  speaking  terms  with  two  or 
three  gentlemen,  whom  I  found  very  affable,  and  all  the  more  hospi- 
tably attentive  on  the  score  of  my  nationality.  It  is  verj'  singular 
how  kind  an  Englishman  will  almost  invariably  be  to  an  individual 


HAWTHORNE.  157 


.\uu  J  a  .lij.      »i  II  iHHii     I  >  I 


i.,iim^  a  |..L  of  his  prejudice  against  the 
American  character  in  the  lump.  My  new  acquaintances  took  evident 
piiiiis  to  put  me  at  my  ease ;  and,  in  requital  of  their  good-nature,  I 
soon  l)egan  to  look  round  at  the  general  company  in  a  critical  spirit, 
making  my  crude  o])scrvations  apart,  and  dnnving  silent  inferences, 
of  the  correctness  of  which  I  should  not  have  been  half  so  well  satis- 
fied a  year  afterwards  as  at  that  moment. 

There  were  two  judges  present,  a  good  many  lawyers,  and  a  few 
officers  of  the  army  in  uniform.  The  other  guests  seemed  to  be 
principally  of  the  mercantile  class,  and  among  them  was  a  ship-owner 
from  Nova  Scotia,  with  whom  I  coalesced  a  little,  inasmuch  as  we  were 
liorn  with  the  same  sky  over  our  heads,  and  an  unbroken  continuity 
of  soil  between  his  abode  and  mine.  There  was  one  old  gentleman, 
whose  char.icter  I  never  made  out,  with  powdered  hair,  clad  in  black 
breeclies  and  silk  stockings,  and  wearing  a  rapier  at  his  side  ;  other- 
wise, with  the  exception  of  the  military  uniforms,  there  was  little  or 
no  pretence  of  official  costume.  It  being  the  first  considerable  assem- 
blage of  Englishmen  that  I  luul  seen,  my  honest  impression  al)out 
them  was,  that  they  were  a  heavy  and  homely  set  of  people,  with  a 
riMnarkal)le  roughness  of  aspect  and  behavior,  not  repulsive,  but 
beneath  which  it  required  more  familiarity  with  the  national  cliaracter 
th:m  I  then  possessed  always  to  detect  the  good  breeding  of  a  gentle- 
man. Being  generally  middle-aged,  or  still  farther  advanced,  they 
were  by  no  means  graceful  in  figure ;  for  the  comeliness  of  the  youth- 
ful Englisliman  rapidly  diminishes  with  years,  his  body  appearing  to 
grow  longer,  his  legs  to  abbreviate  themselves,  and  his  stomach  to 
assume  the  dignified  prominence  which  justly  belongs  to  that  metrop- 
olis of  his  system.  His  face  (what  with  the  acridity  of  the  atmos- 
phere, ale  at  lunch,  wine  at  dinner,  ancY  a  well-digested  abundance  of 
succiUent  food)  gets  red  and  mottled,  and  develops  at  least  one  addi- 
tional chin,  with  a  promise  of  more ;  so  that,  finally,  a  stranger  recog- 
nizes Ris  animal  part  at  the  most  superficial  glance,  but  must  take 
time  and  a  little  piins  to  discover  the  intellectual.  Comparing  him 
with  an  American,  I  really  thought  that  our  national  paleness  and 
lean  habit  of  flesh  gave  us  greatly  the  advantage  in  an  jrsthetic  point 
of  view.  It  seemed  to  me,  moreover,  that  the  English  tailor  had  not 
clone  80  ranch  as  he  might  and  ought  for  these  heavy  figures,  but  had 
gone  on  wilfully  exaggerating  their  unconthness  by  the  roominess 
of  their  gar«»ents ;   he  had  evidently  no  idea  of  accuracy  of  fit,  and 


158  CATIK  aim'-    literary    Kl.MU.K. 

smartness  was  eiitin-lv  out  nt'  hi-  line.  But,  to  be  quite  op.  ii  wiih 
the  reader,  T  afterwards  leiiriicd  to  think  that  thi-  aforesaid  tailor  has 
a  deeper  art  than  liis  brethren  amonir  ourselvt-.  ktiouiiiir  how  to  dress 
ln>  cu-tiiiiKi--  with  >ueh  individual  propruiN  that  they  look  as  if  tlie\ 
were  born  in  their  clothes,  the  tit  beinir  to  tiie  eliaraeter  rather  than 
the  form.  If  you  make  an  Hn«j:lishnia!i  -ni  :rt  unh  >-  he  be  a  very 
exceptional  one,  of  whom  !  hav.'  -(cn  ;  i   make  him  a  mon- 

ster: his  ]>est  aspect  is  that  of  i)on(lerou-  i. -)-> ,  u.l)iliiy. 

in  due  time  we  were  summoned  to  the  tahh-.  and  went  thither  in 
no  solemn  procession,  but  with  a  good  deal  ot'  io>tiinir,  thrusting 
held nd,  and  serand^lini:  for  places  when  \\(  r  rli,,l  <uir  destination. 
The  IcLTal  L:"entlemen.  1    su-])eei.  wnc    r  ;;i(ii<oi-ous 

zeal,  whieii  1  never  atnrward-  remarked  m  a  smular  party.  The 
diniug-hall  wa>  of  noble  Mze,  and.  like  the  other  rooms  of  the  suite, 
was  gorgeously  painted  and  gilded  and  brilliantly  illuminated.  There 
was  a  splendid  table-service,  and  a  noble  array  of  footmen,  some  of 
them  in  plain  clothes,  and  other*  wearinp:  the  town-livery,  richly  deco- 
rated with  irold  lace,  and  them-  IK  nt  specimens  of  the  bloom- 
ing youiiLT  manhood  of  Britain.  V.  ..,  n  \\e  were  fairly  seated,  it  was 
certainly  an  a*rreeable  spectacle  to  look  up  and  down  the  Ion--  vista 
of  v:iv'  ■  i]  behold  t!i(  ni  -o  resolute,  so  conscious  that 
there  w  ^  .  nt  business  in  hand,  and  so  determined  to  l)e 
equal  to  the  occasion. 

T)urim:  the  dinner  T  had  a  irood  deal  ^  '  i:t  conversation  with 
the   p-ntlenum   on   either   side   of  me.  iiem,    a    lawyer,   ex- 

patiated with  irreat  unction  on  the  >oei;ii  >tandinLr  of  the  judges. 
R(>})resentinLr  the  diirnity  and  authority  of  the  Crown,  tluy  take  pre- 
cedence, durini:  :i>>ize-tim(\  of  the  hiirhest  nnlitiiry  men  in  the  king- 
dom, of  the  Lord-Lieutenant  of  the  county,  of  the  Archbishops,  of  the 
royal  Pukes,  niul  <>ven  of  tlie  Prince  of  AVales.  For  the  nonce,  they 
are  the  Li-r.;,u  -i  men  in  llmrland.  With  a  irlow  of  professional  (om- 
placency  that  amounted  to  enthusiasm,  iny  friend  assured  me,  that,  in 
case  of  a  royal  dinner,  a  judjre,  if  actually  holdimr  an  assize,  would  be 
expected  to  offer  1:>  arm  and  take  the  Qu.'cu  Inr-.lf  to  t1ie  tal)le. 
HappeniuiT  to  ]>e  in  company  with  some  of  the<e  elevated  personages, 
on  subsequciit  occasions,  it  appeared  to  me  that  the  judges  are  fully 
conscious  of  their  paramount  claims  to  respect,  and  take  rather  more 
pains  to  impress  them  on  their  ceremonial  inferiors  tlian  men  of  hiofh 
hereditaiy  rank  are  apt  to  do.     Bishops,  if  it  be  not   irr.verent  to  say 


HAWTHORNE.  159 

80,  are  sometimes  marked  by  a  similar  characteristic.  Dignified  posi- 
tion is  so  sweet  to  an  Englishman  thi.t  he  needs  to  be  born  in  it,  and 
to  feel  it  thorougldy  incorporated  with  his  nature  from  its  original 
germ,  in  order  to  keep  him  from  flaunting  it  obtrusively  in  the  faces 
of  iimocent  bystanders. 

After  an  hour  or  two  of  valiant  achievement  with  knife  and  fork 
came  the  dessert ;  and  at  the  point  of  the  festiv^il  where  finger-glasses 
are  usually  introduced,  a  large  silver  basin  was  earned  round  to  the 
guests,  containing  rose-water,  into  which  we  dipped  the  ends  of  our 
napkins  and  were  conscious  of  a  delightful  fnigrance,  instead  of  that 
heavy  and  weary  odor,  the  hatefid  ghost  of  a  defunct  dinner. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed,  a  goodly  group  of  decanters  were  set 
before  the  Mayor,  who  sent  them  forth  on  their  outward  voyage,  full 
freighted  with  Port,  Sherry,  Madeira,  and  Claret,  of  which  excellent 
liquors,  methought,  the  latter  found  least  acceptance  among  the  guests. 
When  every  man  had  filled  his  glass,  his  Worship  stood  up  and  pro- 
posed a  toast.  It  was,  of  course,  "  Our  gi-acious  Sovereign,"  or 
words  to  that  effect ;  and  immediately  a  band  of  musicians,  whose 
preliminary  tootings  and  thnimmings  I  had  already  heard  behind  me, 
struck  up  "  God  save  the  Queen,"  and  the  whole  company  rose  with 
one  impulse  to  assist  in  singing  that  famous  national  anthem. 


MOSSES  FEOM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

We  stand  now  on  the  river's  brink.  It  may  well  be  called  the 
Conconl,  —  the  river  of  peace  and  quietness,  —  for  it  is  certainly  the 
most  unexcitable  and  sluggish  stream  that  ever  loitered  impercepti- 
bly towards  its  eternity,  the  sea.  Positively,  I  had  lived  three  weeks 
beside  it,  l)efore  it  grew  quite  clear  to  my  perception  which  way  the 
current  flowed.  It  never  has  a  vivacious  aspect,  except  when  a  north- 
western breeze  is  vexing  its  surface,  on  a  sunshiny  dny. 

From  the  incurable  indolence  of  its  nature,  the  stream  is  happily 
incapable  of  becoming  the  slave  of  human  ingenuity,  as  is  the  fate 
of  so  many  a  wild,  free,  mountain  torrent.  While  all  things  else  are 
cniiipcllod  to  subserve  some  useful  purpose,  it  idles  its  sluggish  life 
auiy  in  lazy  lilK*rty,  without  turning  a  solitary  spindle,  or  affording 
even  water-power  enough  to  grind  the  com  that  grows  upon  its 
banks. 

The  torpor  of  its  movement  allows  it  nowhere  a  bright,  pebbly 


k 


lOU  CATIICAIIT  S    LITERARY    READER. 

shore,  nor  so  much  as  a  narrow  strip  of  glistening  sand,  in  any  part 
of  its  course.  It  slumbers  between  broad  prairies,  kissing  the  loin 
raeadow-grass,  and  bathes  the  overhanging  boughs  of  elder-busli( 
and  w  illows,  or  the  roots  of  elm  and  ash  trees,  and  clumps  of  maph  >. 
Fhigs  and  rushes  grow  along  its  plashy  shore ;  the  yellow  water-lily 
spreads  its  broad,  flat  leaves  on  the  margin ;  and  the  fragrant  white 
pond-lily  abounds,  generaUy  selecting  a  position  just  so  far  from  tin 
river's  Ixink  that  it  cannot  Ije  grasped,  save  at  the  hazard  of  plun- 
ging in. 

It  is  a  marvel  whence  this  perfect  flower  derives  its  loveliness  and 
perfume,  springing,  as  it  does,  from  the  black  mud  over  which  tlu 
river  sleeps,  and  where  lurk  the  slimy  eel,  and  speckled  frog,  and  the 
mud-turtle,  whom  continiuil  washing  cannot  cleanse.  It  is  the  same 
blac-k  mud  out  of  which  the  yellow  lily  sucks  its  rank  life  and  noi- 
some odor.  Thus  we  see,  too,  in  the  world,  that  some  persons  a- 
similate  only  what  is  ugly  and  evil  from  the  same  moral  circumstanci- 
which  supply  good  and  beautiful  results  —  the  fragrance  of  celestial 
flowers  —  to  the  daily  life  of  others. 

The  Old  Manse! — we  had  almost  forgotten  it,  l)uL  will  return 
thither  through  the  orchard.  This  was  set  out  by  the  last  clergyman, 
in  the  decline  of  his  life,  when  the  neighbors  laughed  at  the  hoary- 
headinl  man  for  planting  trees  from  which  he  could  have  no  prospect 
of  gathering  fruit.  Even  had  that  been  the  case,  there  was  only  so 
much  the  better  motive  for  planting  them,  in  the  pure  and  unselfish 
hope  of  benefiting  his  successors, — an  end  so.  seldom  achieved  by 
more  ambitious  efforts.  But  the  old  minister,  l)efore  reaching  his 
patriarchal  age  of  ninety,  ate  the  apples  from  this  orchard  during 
many  years,  and  added  silver  and  gold  to  his  annual  stipend  by  dis- 
posing of  the  superfluity. 

It  is  pleasant  to  think  of  liim,  walking  among  the  trees  in  the  quiet 
afternoons  of  early  autumn,  and  picking  up  here  and  there  a  wind- 
fall ;  while  he  observes  how  heavily  the  branches  are  weighed  down, 
and  computes  the  numl)er  of  empty  flour-ban-els  that  will  be  filled  by 
their  burden.  He  loved  each  tree,  doubtless,  as  if  it  had  been  his 
own  child.  An  orchard  has  a  relation  to  mankind,  and  readily  con- 
nects itself  with  matters  of  the  heart.  The  trees  possess  a  domestic 
character ;  they  have  lost  the  wild  nature  of  their  forest  kindred,  and 
have  grown  humanized  by  receiving  the  care  of  man,  as  well  as  by 
contributing  to  his  wants. 


HAWTHOENB.  161 

I   have  met  with   no  other  such   pleasant  trouble  in  the  world, 

>  that  of  findinp^  myself,  with  only  the  two  or  three  mouths  which  it 

u;is  my  privilege  to  feed,  the  sole  inheritor  of  the  old  clergyman's 

wealth  of  fruits.     Throughout  the  summtr,  there  were  cherries  and 

(  urraiits  ;  and  then  came  Autumn,  with  his  immense  burden  of  apples, 

(In)pping  them  continually  from  his  overladen  shoulders  as  he  trudged 

along.     In  the  stillest  afternoon,  if  I  listened,  the  thump  of  a  great 

apple  was  audible,  falling  without  a  breath  of  wind,  from  the  mere 

necessity  of  perfect  ripeness.     And,    besides,  there  were  pear-trees, 

iiat  flung  down  bushels  upon   bushels  of  heavy  pears;  and  peach- 

ves,  which,  in  a  good  year,  tormented  me  with  peaches,  neither  to  be 

.ten  nor  kept,  nor,  without  labor  and  pei-plexity,  to  be  given  away. 

The  idea  of  an  infinite  generosity  and  inexhaustible  bounty,  on  the 

p;irt  of  our  mother  Nature,  was  well  worth  obtaining  through  such 

ires  as  these.     That  feeling  can  be  enjoyed  in  perfection  not  otdy 

y  the  natives  of  summer  islands,  where  the  bread-fruit,  the  cocoa,  the 

p:iim,  and  the  orange  grow  spontaneously,  and  hold  forth  the  ever- 

r.ady  meal ;  but,  likewise,  almost  as  well,  by  a  man  long  habituated 

t(i  city  life,  who  plunges  into  such  a  solitude  as  that  of  the  Old  Manse, 

where  he  plucks  the  fruit  of  trees  that  he  did  not  plant ;  and  which, 

tlierefore,  to  my  heterodox  taste,  bear  the  closer  resemblance  to  those 

fliat  grew  in  Eden. 

Not  that  it  ca!i  be  disputed  that  the  light  toil  requisite  to  cultivate 

moderately  sized  garden  imparts  such  zest  to  kitchen  vegetables  as 

i>  never  found  in  those  of  the  market-gardener.     Childless  men,  if  they 

would  know  something  of  the  bliss  of  paternity,  should  plant  a  seed, 

be  it  squash,  bean,   Indian  corn,  or  perhaps  a  mere  flower,  or 

w  orthless  weed,  —  should  plant  it  with  their  own  hands,  and  nurse  it 

trom  infancy  to  maturity,  altogether  by  their  own  care.     If  there  Ihj 

)t  too  many  of  them,  each  individual  plant  becomes  an  object  of 

parate  interest. 

My  garden,  that  skirted  the  avenue  of  the  Manse,  was  of  precisely 

I  lie   rl-riit   patent.     An   hour  or  two  of  morning  labor  was  all  that  it 

Knt  I  used  to  visit  and  revisit  it  a  dozen  times  a  day,  a!id 

tiKi  111  (ieep  contemplation  over  my  vegetable  progeny,  with  a  love 

Mat  nobody  could  share  or  conceive  of,  who  had  never  taken  part  in 

he  process  of  creation.     It  was  one  of  the  most  bewitching  sights  in 

i>e  world  to  observe  a  hill  of  lieans  thrusting  aside  the  soil,  or  a  row 

r  early  peas  just  peeping  forth  sufficiently  to  trace  a  line  of  delicate 

leen. 

K 


16:i  cathcart's  lite&a&y  readee. 

LYTTON. 

1805 -1873. 

Sm  Edwakd  Bclwe*  (raised  to  the  peerage  with  the  title  of  I>ord  Lytton)  was  born  in  Eng- 
land  in  1805  and  died  in  187:^.  lie  fraduated  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  in  182G.  In  18S2 
he  entered  ParUamcDt,  continaing  a  member  till  1841 ;  in  18u2  be  was  re-ciected  to  a  scat  in  that 
body,  where  be  serred  until  his  elevation  to  the  peerage.  In  1858  he  was  chosen  Lord  Rrctor  of 
Um  Univeraity  of  Glasgow.  At  a  rery  tender  age  be  began  to  write  rerses,  and  long  before 
he  reached  his  m^rity.  had  pabliahed  a  volume.  His  first  book,  Itauul,  an  OnenUil  Tale, 
bears  the  date  of  1820.  It  was  followed  by  several  volumes  of  verse,  and  bis  first  novel,  Falkland, 
appeared  in  \«n,  the  year  of  hb  marriage.  The  next  year  he  gave  to  the  world  his  famons 
novel,  Ptikmm,  which  established  his  reputation  on  a  firm  basis.  It  was  surpassed  in  merit, 
bowerer.  by  some  of  his  subsequent  works,  especially  by  Bienti.  Lord  Lyttun  distin^ished 
himself  in  almost  erery  departmeot  of  literature,  —  as  poet,  easayist,  novelist,  and  dramatist. 
Sereral  of  his  plays.  The  Lmdf  efLgomt  and  Rickelini,  rank  among  the  most  popular  plays  on  the 
modem  stage.  He  was  a  most  prolific  writer ;  even  a  catalogue  of  his  productions  would  be 
too  long  for  a  place  here.  During  the  ten  years  preceding  his  dtath  Lord  Lytton  published 
■taBoat  aothing,  bvt  fcmid  time,  amid  his  political  duties,  to  do  a  good  deal  of  literary  work. 
Saee  hia  death  two  of  hie  Mnrels  have  been  given  to  the  world,  Ketulm  Ckillingly  and  The 
Ftmnmu.  The  former  is  tuperior  to  any  of  his  earlier  books,  representing  the  high  culture  of 
the  author  in  its  fullest  derelopment  Judged  by  Us  first  compositions,  he  won  the  reputation 
of  a  literary  fop,  to  whose  ultra-fastidiona  taste  finish  was  the  chief  merit  in  composition.  He 
aeened  to  hold  himself  aloof  from  the  world,  as  from  possible  contamination.  In  his  later  novels 
thia  teodency  waa  less  marked :  and  in  Kaulm  Ckillimfflf  it  disappears  wholly,  being  replaced 
by  a  catholic,  warm-hearted  philosophy  that  bespeaks  a  healthy  and  genial  nature.  For  the 
work  of  the  novelist  he  was  most  happily  equipped.  Tlie  art  of  delineating  the  passion  of  Ioa  e 
was  his  in  full  measure,  and  he  was  a  master  of  graphic  and  dramatic  narrative.  In  his  earlier 
books,  FklkUmd  and  Paul  Clifford,  he  exhibits  the  license  and  le^  ity  of  youth ;  but  these  vices 
were  corrected  m  later  life,  and  morally,  his  last  novels  are  nnexcf ptionablc.  Regarded  as  a 
whole.  Lord  Lytton's  literary  career  waa  conspicuously  successful,  and  he  left  behind  him  not 
only  an  honored  name,  but  many  enduring  fmita  of  his  genius  and  industry.  The  firat  extract  is 
ttwa  Mf  Nowtl,  the  second  is  from  Letlm,  or  tkt  ^ege  of  Granada ;  the  poetry  from  Tke  Lady  of 


OH  KEVOLTTTION. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  cried  Riccabocca  kindly,  "  the  only  thing  sure  and 
tangible  to  which  these  writers  would  lead  you  lies  at  the  first  step, 
and  that  is  what  is  commonly  called  a  Revolution.  Now,  I  know 
what  that  is.  1  have  gone,  not  indeed  through  a  revolution,  but  an 
attempt  at  one." 

Leonard  raised  his  eyes  towards  his  master  with  a  look  of  profound 
respect  and  great  curiosity. 

"Yes,"  added  Riccabocca,  and  the  face  on  which  the  boy  gazed 
exchanged  its  usual  grotesque  and  sardonic  expression  for  one  ani- 
mated, noble,  and  heroic.  "  Yes,  not  a  revolution  for  chimeras,  but 
for  that  cause  which  the  coldest  allow  to  be  good,  and  which,  when 
successful,  all  time  approves  as  di\ane,  —  the  redemption  of  our  native 


LTTTON.  1 63 

soil  from  the  rule  of  the  foreigner !  I  have  shared  in  such  an  attempt. 
And,"  continued  the  Italian,  mournfully,  "  recalling  now  all  the  evil 
p;issions  it  arouses,  all  the  ties  it  dissolves,  all  the  blood  that  it  com- 
mands to  flow,  all  the  healthful  industry  it  arrests,  all  the  madmen 
that  it  arms,  all  the  victims  that  it  dupes,  I  question  whether  one  man 
rt-ally  honest,  pure,  and  humane,  who  has  once  gone  through  such  an 
ordeal,  would  ever  hazard  it  aginn,  unless  he  was  assured  that  the 
victory  was  certain,  —  ay,  and  the  object  for  which  he  fights  not  to  be 
wrested  from  his  hands  amidst  the  uproar  of  the  elements  that  the 
battle  has  released." 

The  Italian  paused,  shaded  his  brow  with  his  hand,  and  remained 
long  silent.  Then,  gradually  resuming  his  ordinary  tone,  he  con- 
tinued :  — 

"  Revolutions  that  have  no  definite  objects  made  clear  by  the  posi- 
tive experience  of  history,  —  revolutions,  in  a  word,  that  aim  less  at 
substitutinj^  one  law  or  one  dynasty  for  another,  than  at  changing  the 
whole  scheme  of  society,  have  been  little  attempted  by  real  statesmen. 
l>en  Lycurgus  •  is  proved  to  be  a  myth  who  never  existed.  Such 
organic  changes  are  but  in  the  day-dreams  of  philosophers  who  lived 
apart  from  the  actual  world,  and  whose  opinions  (though  generally 
tiiey  were  very  benevolent,  good  sort  of  men,  and  wrote  in  an  el^ant 
poetical  style)  one  would  no  more  take  on  a  plain  matter  of  life  than 
one  would  look  upon  Virgil's  Eclogues  as  a  faithful  picture  of  the 
ordinary  pains  and  pleasures  of  the  peasants  who  tend  our  sheep, 
llcid  them  as  you  would  read  poets,  and  they  are  delightful.  But  at- 
tempt to  shape  the  world  according  to  the  poetr}%  and  fit  yourself  for 
I  madhouse.  The  farther  off  the  age  is  from  the  realization  of  such 
projects,  the  more  these  poor  philosophers  have  indulged  them.  Thus, 
it  was  amidst  the  saddest  corruption  of  court  manners  that  it  became 
the  fashion  in  Paris  to  sit  for  one's  picture,  with  a  crook  in  one's 
hand,  as  Alexia  or  Daphne.  Just  as  liberty  was  fast  dying  out  of 
Greece,  and  the  successors  of  Alexander  were  founding  their  mon- 
archies, and  Rome  was  growing  up  to  crush  in  its  iron  grasp  all  states 
sive  its  own,  Plato  withdraws  his  eyes  from  the  world,  to  open  them 
ill  his  dreamy  Atlantis. f  Just  in  the  grimmest  period  of  English 
history,  with  the  ax  hanging  over  his  head,  Sir  Thomas  More  gives 

*  I.x  I  Ri.i  s      A  raouMU  SptrUn  lawgiver,  supposed  to  hare  lived  aboat  860  B.C.     See 
I'lmtarek't  Uttt. 
f  PUto't  idea  of  a  perfect  tUte  it  unfolded  in  the  U»$  and  the  SfpublU. 


JOl  CATHCJUirS    LITERARY    READER. 

you  his  Utopia.*  Just  when  the  world  is  to  be  the  theater  of  a  new 
Sesostris,  the  sages  of  France  tell  you  that  the  ao^e  is  too  enlightened 
for  war,  that  man  is  henceforth  to  be  governed  by  pure  reason  and 
live  in  a  paradise.  Very  pretty  reading  all  this  to  a  man  like  me, 
Lenny,  who  can  admire  and  smile  at  it.  But  to  you,  to  the  man  who 
has  to  work  for  bis  living,  to  the  man  who  thinks  it  would  be  so 
much  more  pleasant  to  live  at  his  ease  in  a  phaknstery  f  than  to  work 
eight  or  ten  hours  a  day  ;  to  the  man  of  talent  and  action  and  indus- 
try, whose  future  is  invested  in  that  tranquillity  and  onler  of  a  statr 
in  which  Udent  and  action  and  industry  are  a  certain  capital;  why. 
the  great  bankers  had  better  encourage  a  theory  to  upset  the  system 
of  banking  !  Whatever  disturbs  society,  yea,  even  by  a  causeless 
panic,  much  more  by  an  actual  stniggle,  falls  first  upon  the  market  of 
labor,  and  thence  affects  prejudicially  every  department  of  intelligence. 
In  such  tfmes  the  arts  are  arrested,  literature  is  neglected,  people  arc 
too  busy  to  read  anything  save  appeals  to  their  passions.  And  capi- 
tal, shaken  in  its  sense  of  security,  uo  longer  ventures  boldly  through 
the  land,  calling  forth  all  the  energies  of  toil  and  enterprise,  and  ex- 
tending to  every  workman  his  reward.  Now,  Lenny,  take  this  piece 
of  advice.  You  are  young,  clever,  and  aspiring :  men  rarely  succeed 
in  changing  the  world ;  but  a  man  seldom  fails  of  success  if  he  lets 
the  world  alone,  and  resolves  to  make  the  Ix^st  of  it.  You  are  in  the 
midst  of  the  great  crisis  of  your  life ;  it  is  the  stniggle  between  the 
new  desires  knowledge  excites,  and  that  sense  of  poverty,  which  those 
desires  convert  either  into  hope  and  emulation  or  into  envy  and 
despair.  I  grant  that  it  is  an  up-hill  work  that  lies  Wfore  you  ;  but 
don't  you  think  it  is  always  easier  to  climb  a  mountain  than  it  is  to  level 
it  ?     These  books  call  on  you  to  level  the  mountain  ;  and  that  raoun- 

•  Utopia.  (See  note,  page  317. )  This  work,  named  from  a  king  Utopus,  written  in  Latin,  was 
published  at  Loavain  in  1516.  The  first  English  edition,  translated  by  Robynson,  was  published 
in  London  in  1551.  Btsliop  Burnet's  translation  appeared  in  1684.  Hallam^ys:  "The  Republic 
of  Plato  no  doubt  furnished  More  with  the  genu  of  his  perfect  society:  but  it  would  be  unreasona- 
ble to  deny  him  the  merit  of  having  struck  out  the  fiction  of  its  real  existence  from  his  own  fertile 
imagination  -,  and  it  is  manifest  that  some  of  his  moet  distingnished  successors  in  the  same  walk 
of  romance,  especially  Swift,  were  largely  indebted  to  his  reasoning  as  well  as  inventive  talents. 
Tl»ose  wIk)  read  the  I'topia  in  Burnet's  translation  may  believe  that  theyareinBrobdinguag;  so 
similar  is  the  vein  of  satirical  humor  and  easy  language.  If  false  and  impracticable  theories  are 
found  in  the  rtop'tu  Cand,  perhaps,  he  knew  them  to  be  8urb\  this  is  in  a  much  greater  degree 
true  of  the  Platonic  republic."  In  a  note  to  a  later  edition  of  his  Literanj  History,  Hallam  qualifies 
the  assertion  that  More  Iwrrowed  the  germ  of  his  Utopia  from  Plato,  and  says,  "  Neither  the  JU- 
public  nor  the  Latcs  of  Plato  bear  any  resemblance  to  the  I'topia."  Lord  Bacon's  treatise  on  the 
same  subject.  The  Nev>  Atlantis,  a  Fragment,  was  published  in  1635,  and  Swift's  Gulliver's 
Trarrls  in  1726  -  27- 

t  PuALANSTEBT.    An  Organized  community  of-socialists. 


LYTTON.  165 

tain  is  the  property  of  other  people,  subdivided  amongst  a  great  many 
proprietors  and  protected  by  law.  At  the  first  stroke  of  the  pickax 
it  is  ten  to  one  but  what  you  are  taken  up  fur  a  trespass.  But  the 
patli  up  the  mountain  is  a  right  of  way  uncontested.  You  may  be 
sifc  at  tlu^  summit  before  (even  if  the  owners  are  fools  enough  to  let 
you)  you  could  have  leveled  a  yard.  It  is  more  than  two  thousand 
years  ago,"  quoth  the  doctor,  "  since  poor  Plato  began  to  level  it,  and 
the  mountain  is  as  high  as  ever !  " 

Thus  saying,  Riccabocca  came  to  the  end  of  his  pipe,  and  stalking 
tiiouLrhtfuUy  away,  left  Leonard  Fairfield  trying  to  extract  light  from 
tlu-  ^uioke. 

SUREENDEE  OF  GEENADA. 

Pay  dawned  upon  Grenada,  and  the  beams  of  the  winter  sun, 
smiling  away  the  clouds  of  the  past  night,  played  cheerily  upon  the 
murmuring  waves  of  the  Xenil  and  the  Darro.  Alone,  upon  a  bal- 
cony commanding  a  view  of  the  bciiutiful  landscape,  stood  Boabdil,* 
the  last  of  the  Moorish  kings.  He  had  sought  to  bring  to  his  aid  all 
the  lessons  of  the  philosophy  he  had  so  ardently  cultivated. 

"  What  ai-c  we,"  said  the  musing  prince,  *'  that  we  should  fill  the 
earth  with  ourselves,  —  we  kings  !  Earth  resounds  with  the  crash  of 
my  falling  throne  ;  on  the  ear  of  races  unborn  the  echo  will  live  pro- 
longed. But  what  have  I  lost  ?  Nothing  that  was  necessary  to  my 
happiness,  my  repose ;  nothing  save  the  source  of  all  my  wretched- 
ness, the  Marah  of  my  life !  Shall  I  less  enjoy  heaven  and  earth,  or 
thought  and  action,  or  man's  more  material  luxuries  of  food  and  sleep, 
—  the  common  and  cheap  desires  of  all?  At  the  worst,  I  sink  but  to 
a  level  with  chiefs  and  princes ;  I  am  but  leveled  with  those  whom 

the  multitude  admire  and  envy But  it  is  time  to  depart."     So 

saying,  he  descended  to  the  court,  flung  himself  on  his  barb,  and, 
with  a  small  and  saddened  train  passed  through  the  gate  which  we 
yet  survey,  by  a  blackened  and  crumbling  tower,  overgrown  with 
vines  and  ivy ;  thence,  amid  gnnlens,  now  appertaining  to  the  con- 
vent of  the  victor  faith,  he  took  his  mournful  and  unnoticed  way. 

When  he  came  to  the  middle  of  the  hill  that  rises  above  those  gnr- 

•  BoABDTL.    The  Uat  Moorish  king  of  Granada.    Ferdinand  of  Are(:on  dethroned  him,  1491. 
led  to  Africa,  and  died  aliont  1BS6.     For  nearly  eipht  centuries  the  Moors  had 
lield  poMettion  of  OniUMla,  it  lieing  the  last  province  of  the  Peninsula  recovered  by  the  Chris* 
tMBS.    Tbe  reader  will  find  •  delifhtfal  history  of  this  ranuntic  country  and  ito  perpetual  war* 
fa  Irring'a  Cbm^imt  tf  Grmmada. 


BiMbdtt 
held  pc 

^     tiaas. 

^L    falrrii 


iG6  catucart's  literary  reader. 

dens,  the  steel  of  the  Spanish  armor  gleamed  upon  him,  as  the  detach- 
ment sent  to  occupy  the  palace  marched  over  the  summit  in  steady 
order  and  profound  silence.  At  the  head  of  the  vanguard  rode,  upon 
a  snow-white  palfrey,  the  Bishop  of  Avila,  followed  by  a  long  train  of 
barefooted  monks.  Tliey  halted  as  Boabdil  approached,  and  the  grave 
bishop  saluted  him  with  the  air  of  one  who  addresses  an  infidel  and 
an  inferior.  With  the  quick  sense  of  dignity  common  to  the  great, 
and  yet  more  to  the  fallen,  Boabdil  felt,  but  resented  not  the  pride 
of  the  ecclesiastic.  **  Gro,  Christian,"  said  he,  mildly  ;  "  the  gates  ot 
the  Alhambra  are  open,  and  Allah  has  bestowed  the  palace  and  the 
city  upon  your  king.  May  his  virtues  atone  the  faults  of  Boabdil !  " 
So  saying,  and  waiting  no  answer,  he  rode  on,  without  looking  to  tl 
right  or  the  left.     The  Spaniards  also  pursued  their  way. 

The  sun  had  fairly  risen  above  the  mountains,  when  Boabdil  and 
his  tniin  beheld,  from  the  eminence  on  which  they  were,  the  whole 
armament  of  Spain  ;  and  at  the  same  moment,  louder  than  the  tramp 
of  horse  or  the  clash  of  arms,  was  heard  distinctly  the  solemn  chant  ot 
Te  Beum,  which  preceded  the  blaze  of  the  unfurled  and  lofty  standards. 
Boalxlil,  himself  still  silent,  heard  the  groans  and  acclamations  of  his 
train  :  he  turned  to  cheer  or  chide  them,  and  then  saw,  from  his  own 
watch-tower,  with  the  sun  shining  full  upon  its  pure  and  dazzling 
surface,  the  silver  cross  of  Spain.  His  Alhambra  was  already  in  the 
hands  of  the  foe ;  while  beside  that  badge  of  the  holy  war  waved  the 
gay  and  flaunting  flag  of  St.  Jago,  the  canonized  Mars  of  the  chivalry 
of  Spain.  At  that  sight  the  king's  voice  died  within  him  ;  he  gave  the 
rein  to  his  barb,  impatient  to  close  the  fatal  ceremonial,  and  slackened 
not  his  speed  till  almost  within  bow-shot  of  the  first  rank  of  the  army. 

Never  had  Christian  war  assumed  a  more  splendid  and  imposing 
aspect.  Far  as  the  eye  could  reach  extended  the  glittering  and  gor- 
geous lines  of  that  goodly  power,  bristling  with  sun-lighted  spears 
and  blazoned  banners ;  while  beside  murmured  and  glowed  and 
danced  the  silver  and  laughing  Xenil,  careless  what  lord  should 
possess,  for  his  little  day,  the  banks  that  bloomed  by  its  everlasting 
course.  By  a  small  mosque  halted  the  flower  of  the  army.  Sur- 
rounded by  the  arch-priests  of  that  mighty  hierarchy,  the  peers  and 
princes  of  a  court  that  rivaled  the  Roland  of  Charlemagne,  was  seen 
the  kingly  form  of  Ferdinand  himself,  with  Isabel  at  his  right  hand, 
and  the  high-born  dames  of  Spain,  relieving,  with  their  gay  colors 
and  sparkling  gems,  the  sterner  splendor  of  the  crested  helmet  and 


LYTTON.  167 

polished  mail.  Within  sight  of  the  royal  group,  Boabdil  halted, 
composed  his  aspect  so  as  best  to  conceal  his  soul,  and  a  little  in 
advance  of  his  scanty  train,  but  never  in  mien  and  majesty  more  a 
king,  the  son  of  Abdallah  met  his  haughty  conqueror. 

At  the  sight  of  his  princely  countenance  and  golden  hair,  his  comely 
and  commanding  beauty,  made  more  touching  by  youth,  a  thrill  of 
compassionate  admiration  ran  through  that  assembly  of  the  brave 
and  fair.  Ferdinand  and  Isaliel  slowly  advanced  to  meet  their  late 
rival,  —  their  new  subject;  and  as  Boabdil  would  have  dismounted, 
the  Spanish  king  placed  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  "  Brother  and 
prince,"  said  he,  "  forget  thy  sorrows ;  and  may  our  friendship  here- 
after console  thee  for  reverses  against  which  thou  hast  contended  as  a 
hero  and  a  king  ;  resisting  ma^j,  but  resigned  at  length  to  God." 

Boabdil  did  not  aftect  to  return  this  bitter  but  \uiintentional 
mockery  of  compliment.  He  bowed  his  head,  and  remained  a  moment 
silent ;  then  motioning  to  his  train,  four  of  his  officers  approached, 
and,  kneeling  beside  Ferdinand,  proffered  to  him,  upon  a  silver 
Inickler,  the  keys  of  the  city.  "O  king!"  then  said  Boabdil,  "ac- 
cept the  keys  of  the  last  hold  which  has  resisted  the  arms  of  Spain. 
The  empire  of  the  Moslem  is  no  more.  Thine  are  the  city  and  the 
poo])le  of  Grenada ;  yielding  to  thy  prowess,  they  yet  confide  in  thy 
nil !(  V.  '  "  They  do  well,"  said  the  king ;  "  our  promises  shall  not  be 
l)roken.  But  since  we  know  the  gallantry  of  Moorish  cavaliers,  not  to 
us,  but  to  gentler  hands,  shall  the  keys  of  Grenada  be  surrendered." 

Thus  saWng,  Fenlinand  gave  the  keys  to  Isabel,  who  would  have 
addressed  some  soothing  flatteries  to  Boabdil,  but  the  emotion  and 
excitement  were  too  much  for  her  compassionate  heart,  heroine  and 
queen  though  she  was ;  and  when  she  lifted  her  eyes  upon  the  calm 
and  pale  features  of  the  fallen  monarch,  the  tears  gushed  from  them 
irresistibly,  and  her  voice  died  in  murmurs.  A  faint  flush  overspread 
the  features  of  Boabdil,  and  there  was  a  momentary  pause  of  embar- 
r:is<inent,  which  the  Moor  was  the  first  to  break. 

"Fair  queen,"  said  he,  with  mournful  and  pathetic  dignity,  "thou 
canst  read  the  heart  that  thy  generous  sympathy  touches  and  subdues: 
this  is  my  last,  but  not  least  glorious  conquest.  But  I  detain  ye; 
let  not  my  aspect  cloud  your  triumph.  Suffer  me  to  say  farewell." 
"Farewell,  my  brother,"  replied  Fenlinand,  "and  may  fair  fortune 
<xn  with  you  !  Forget  the  past !  "  Boabdil  smiled  bitterly,  saluted 
the  royal  pair  with  profound  respect  and  silent  reverence,  and  rode 


1G8  cathcart's  literaey  reader. 

slowly  on,  leaving  the  army  below,  as  he  ascended  the  path  that  hd 
to  his  new  principality  beyond  the  Alpuxarras.  As  the  trees  snatched 
the  Moorish  cavalcade  from  the  view  of  the  king,  Ferdinand  ordered 
the  army  to  recommence  its  march  ;  and  trumpet  and  cymbal  present)  \ 
sent  their  music  to  the  ear  of  the  Moslem. 

Boalxlil  spurred  on  at  full  speed,  till  his  panting  charger  halted  ; 
the  little  village  where  his  mother,  his  slaves,  and  his  faithful  wilV 
Armine  (sent  on  before),  awaited  him.  Joining  these,  he  proceeds  I 
without  delay  upon  his  mehmcholy  path.  They  ascended  that  emi- 
nence which  is  the  pass  into  the  Alpuxarras.  From  its  height,  the 
vale,  the  rivers,  the  spires,  and  the  towers  of  Grenada  broke  gloriously 
upon  the  view  of  the  little  band.  They  halted  mechanically  and  ab- 
ruptly ;  every  eye  was  turned  to  the  belovwl  scene.  The  proud  shame 
of  baffled  warriors,  the  t<;nder  memories  of  home,  of  childhood,  of 
fatherland,  swelled  every  heart,  and  gushed  from  every  eye. 

Suddeidy  the  distant  Iwom  of  artillery  broke  from  the  citadel,  and 
rolled  along  the  sun-lighted  valley  and  crystal  river.  A  univers.il 
wail  burst  from  the  exiles ;  it  smote,  it  overpowered  the  heart  of  the 
ill-starred  king,  in  vain  seeking  to  wrap  himself  in  Eastern  pride  or 
stoical  philosophy.  Tlie  tears  gushed  from  his  eyes,  and  he  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands.  The  band  wound  slowly  on  through  the 
solitiiry  defiles ;  and  that  place,  where  the  king  wept  at  the  last  view 
of  his  lost  empire,  is  still  called  The  Last  Sigh  of  the  Mooe. 

CLAUDE  MELNOTTE'S   APOLOGY   AND   DEFENSE.* 

Pauline,  by  pride 
Angels  have  fallen  ere  thy  time ;  by  pride,  — 
Tliat  sole  alloy  of  thy  most  lovely  mould,  — 
The  evil  spirit  of  a  bitter  love 
And  a  revengeful  heart,  had  power  upon  thee. 
From  my  first  years  my  soul  was  filled  with  thee  ; 
I  saw  thee  midst  the  flowers  the  lowly  boy 
Tended,  unmarked  by  thee,  —  a  spirit  of  bloom. 
And  joy  and  freshness,  as  spring  itself 
"Were  made  a  living  thing,  and  wore  thy  shape  ! 
I  saw  thee,  and  the  passionate  heart  of  man 
Entered  the  breast  of  the  wild-dreaming  boy  ; 

»  The  extract  is  from  the  play,  The  Lady  ef  Lyotu. 


LYTTON.  169 

And  from  that  hour  I  grew  —  what  to  the  last 

1  shall  be  —  thine  adorer !     Well,  this  love, 

Vain,  frantic,  — guilty,  if  thou  wilt,  —  became 

A  fountain  of  ambition  and  bright  hope ; 

I  thought  of  tales  tliat  by  the  winter  hearth 

Old  gossips  tell,  —  how  maidens  sprung  from  kings 

Have  stoopL'd  from  their  high  sphere ;  how  Love,  like  Death, 

Levels  all  ranks,  and  lays  the  shepherd's  crook 

Beside  the  scepter.     Thus  I  made  my  home 

In  the  soft  palace  of  a  fairy  Future ! 

My  father  died ;  and  I,  the  peasant-born, 

Was  my  own  lord.     Then  did  I  seek  to  rise 

Out  of  the  prison  of  my  mean  estate  ; 

And,  with  such  jewels  as  the  exploring  mind 

Brings  from  the  caves  of  Knowledge,  buy  my  ransom 

From  those  twin  jailers  of  the  during  he;  rt,  — 

Low  birth  and  iron  fortune.     Thy  bright  image, 

Glassed  in  my  soul,  took  all  the  hues  of  glory. 

And  lured  me  on  to  those  inspiring  toils 

By  which  man  masters  men  !     For  thee,  I  grew 

A  midnight  student  o'er  the  dreams  of  sages  ! 

For  thee,  I  sought  to  borrow  from  each  Grace 

And  every  Muse  such  attributes  as  lend 

Ideal  charms  to  Love.     I  thought  of  thee, 

Aiul  passion  taught  me  poesy,  —  of  thee. 

And  on  the  painter's  canvas  grew  the  life 

Of  beauty  !  —  Art  became  the  shadow 

Of  the  dear  starlight  of  thy  haunting  eyes  ! 

Men  called  me  vain,  — -  some,  mad, —  I  heeded  not ; 

But  still  toiled  on,  hoped  on,  —  for  it  was  sweet, 

If  not  to  win,  to  feel  more  worthy,  thee  ! 

At  last,  in  one  mad  hour,  I  dared  to  pour 
The  thoughts  that  burst  their  channels  into  song. 
And  sent  them  to  thee,  —  such  a  tribute,  lady, 
As  beauty  rarely  scorns,  even  from  the  meanest. 
The  name  —  appended  by  the  burning  heart 
That  longed  to  show  its  idol  what  bright  things 
It  had  created  —  yea,  the  enthusiast's  name, 


170  CATHCARl's    LITERARY    READER. 

That  sliould  liavf  I).  I'll  tliy  triuiii])li.  was  iliy  scorn! 

That  verv  lioiir    -  uluu  ])assion,  tunicd  to  wratli, 

Resembltil  hatred  inos.t  ;   when  thy  disdain 

Made  my  whole  soul  a  chaos  —  in  that  hour 

The  tempters  found  me  a  revengeful  tool 

For  tlieir  reven<re  !     Thou  hadst  trampled  on  the  worm,- 

It  turntil,  and  stung  thee! 

A  LOVEE'S  DBEAM  OF  HOME. 

Nay,  dearest,  nay.  if  thou  wouldst  have  me  paint 

The  home  to  uliicli.  coidd  love  fidtil  it>  ])i-ay(  r, 

This  hand  would  lead  thee,  listen  :  a  deep  vale, 

Shut  f)ut  In  Alpine  hills  from  the  rnde  world, 

Near  a  drar  lake,"*'  of  irold 

And  ulii-])criiiir  niuu.  -  .   li.--.m_  -..;i.'-t  >kies 

As  cloiidhs-^,  'iavc  w  ith  w.vr  ;  iid  ro-calc  shadows, 

As  I  would  have  thy  fate ! 

A  palace  lifting  to  eternal  sunnncr 

Its  marble  walls,  from  out  a  \\er 

Of  coolest  foliage  musical  witli  birds, 

Whose  songs  should  syllable  thy  name  !     At  noon 

We  'd  sit  beneath  the  arehinir  vines,  and  wonder 

Why  Earth  eouhl  be  unhapj)y,  while  the  Heaven 

Still  left  us  yoiitli  and  love ;  we  'd  have  no  friends 

That  were  not  lovers  ;  no  ambition,  save 

To  excel  them  all  in  love ;  we  'd  read  no  books 

That  \vt  ic  not  tales  of  love,  — that  we  might  smile 

To  think  how  poorly  eloquence  of  words 

Translates  the  poetry  of  hearts  like  ours  ! 

And  when  iiiirht  came.  aniid>t  tlic  Lrcathless  heavens 

We  'd  triuss  wliat  star  should  be  our  home  when  love 

Becomes  immortal :   wliile  the  perfumed  light 

Stole  thronpfh  the  mists  of  alabaster  lamps. 

And  every  air  was  heavy  witli  the  sighs 

Of  onum-c  irrovfs  and  music  from  sweet  lutes. 

And  murmurs  of  low  fountains  that  gush  forth 

r  the  midst  of  roses !     Dost  thou  like  the  picture? 

•  Lnkc  Conio. 


DISRAELI.  171 

DISRAELI. 

1805- 

BenjAXi:*  Piskaeli,  eminent  in  liternture  and  politics,  was  born  in  London  in  1805.  He  is 
th-j  son  of  Isaac  Disraeli,  author  of  several  anique  and  valuable  books,  The  Curiotities  of  L'xtera- 
turt.  The  CmUmitiet  of  Autkort,  etc  Beiganiin  produced  his  first  book,  Vitiun  Grey,  a  novel  of 
extraordinary  merit,  in  his  twenty-first  year.  After  several  defeats  be  was  elected  to  Parliament 
for  tke  Borough  of  Maidstone,  in  1837,  and  since  that  time,  when  nut  in  hi^h  ofHce,  has  been  an 
actire  member  of  the  House  of  Commons.  He  has  three  times  been  ChanceUor  of  the  Exchequer, 
was  Prime  Minister  in  1M8,  and  in  February,  l874>  >  n  the  dissolutiou  ot  Gladstone's  Ministry, 
was  called  by  the  Qoern  to  form  a  new  Cabinet.  His  literary  efforts  have  been  mainly  in  the 
Imc  of  •ctkn,  antf  sereral  of  his  novels  rank  among  the  best  of  the  century.  Of  these  may  be 
111.  t.tioned  Tke  I'omHg  Duke,  C'tHtariMt  Flaiung,  Coningshy,  Tke  UvHiirous  Tale  of  Alrof,  and  his 
\nu■^\  production.  T^hair,  which  profoundly  stirred  the  literary  and  political  circles  of  British 
t*ji-H  ty.  Although  Disraeli  will  be  remembered  as  a  statesman  rather  than  as  an  author,  he  has 
shown  that  he  possesses  abilities  which  entitle  him  to  a  high  place  in  English  literature.  In 
dr5rri[itivc  power,  he  b  hardly  surpassed  by  any  living  writer,  and  in  the  exposition  of  politics, 
sDTial  tlirorir5,  and  the  illustration  of  real  public  life  by  means  of  fictitious  personages  and  inci- 
drnt*.  li.-  i?t  without  a  rival.  He  is  of  Jewish  descent.  Our  first  extract,  taken  from  Comnfftby, 
i<  onr  of  the  finest  tributes  ever  paid  to  the  Hebrew  character,  and  has  special  weight  and  sig- 
niticauce  as  coming  from  his  hand. 


THE  EEBBEW  RACE. 

You  never  ohserve  a  great  intellectual  movement  in  Europe  in 
which  the  Jews  do  not  greatly  participate.  The  first  Jesuits  were 
Jews  ;  that  mysterious  Russian  tliplomacy  which  so  alanns  Western 
ICurope  is  organized  and  principally  cjirried  on  by  Jews  ;  that  mighty 
revolution  which  is  at  this  moment  pn'paring  in  Germany,  and  which 
will  }k'.,  in  fact,  a  second  and  greater  Reformation,  and  of  which  so 
little  is  as  yet  known  in  England,  is  entirely  developing  under  the 
auspices  of  Jews,  who  almost  monopolize  the  professorial  chairs  of 
(icnnany.  Neander,  the  founder  of  spiritual  Christianity,  and  who 
is  Regius  Professor  of  Divinity  in  the  University  of  Berlin,  is  a 
Jew.  Benary,  equally  famous  and  in  the  same  University,  is  a  Jew. 
Wehl,  the  Arabic  professor  of  Heidelberg,  is  a  Jew.  Years  ago, 
when  I  was  in  Palestine,  I  met  a  German  student  who  was  accumu- 
lating materials  for  the  history  of  Christianity,  and  studying  the  genius 
of  the  place ;  a  modest  and  learned  man.  It  was  Wehl ;  then  un- 
known,  since  become  the  first  Arabic  scholar  of  the  day,  and  the 
B  author  of  the  life  of  Mohammed.  But  for  the  German  professors  of 
K  this  race,  their  name  is  Legion.  I  think  there  are  more  than  ten  at 
^L  Berlin  alone. 

i 


1/::  CATllCART  S    LITERAEY    READER. 

I  told  you  just  now  that  I  was  going  up  to  town  to-morrow,  be- 
cause I  always  made  it  a  rule  to  interpose  when  affairs  of  state  were 
on  the  carpet.  Otherwise,  I  never  interfere.  1  liear  of  peace  and 
war  in  newspapers,  hut  1  am  never  alarmed,  except  when  I  am 
informed  tliat  the  sovereigns  want  treasure;  then  1  know  that 
monarchs  are  serious.  A  few  years  back  we  were  applied  to  by 
Russia.  Now,  there  has  been  no  friendship  'between  the  court  of  St. 
Petersburg  and  my  family.  It  has  Dutch  connectioas  which  have 
generally  supplied  it,  and  our  representations  in  favor  of  the  Polish 
Hebrews  —  a  numerous  race,  but  the  most  suffering  and  degarded  of  all 
the  triljes  —  have  not  been  very  agreeable  to  the  czar.  However,  cir- 
cumstances drew  to  an  approximation  between  the  Romanoffs  and  tlu; 
Sidonias.  I  resolved  to  go  myself  to  St.  Petersburg.  I  had  on  my 
arrival  an  interview  with  the  Russian  Minister  of  Finance,  Count  Can- 
crin  ;  I  beheld  the  son  of  a  Lithuanian  Jew.  The  loan  was  connected 
with  the  affairs  of  Spain ;  I  resolved  on  repairing  to  Spain  from 
Russia.  I  traveled  without  intermission.  I  had  an  audience  imme- 
diately on  my  arrival  with  the  Spanish  minister,  Sefior  Mendizabel ; 
1  iK'held  one  like  myself,  a  Jew  of  Aragon. 

In. consequence  of  what  transpired  at  Madrid,  I  went  straight  to 
Paris,  to  consult  the  President  of  the  French  Council ;  I  b^jheld  the 
son  of  a  French  Jew,  a  hero,  an  imperial  marshal,  and  very  properly 
so,  for  who  should  be  military  heroes  if  not  those  who  worship  the 
Lord  of  Hosts?  "And  is  Soult  a  Hebrew?"  "Yes,  and  several 
of  the  French  marshals,  and  the  most  famous ;  Massena,  for  exam- 
ple,—  his  real  name  was  Manasseh."  But  to  my  anecdote.  The 
consequence  of  our  consultations  was,  that  some  Northern  power 
should  be  applied  to  in  a  friendly  and  mediative  capacity.  We  fixed 
on  Pnissia,  and  the  President  of  the  Council  made  an  application  to 
the  Prussian  Minister,  who  attended  a  few  days  after  our  conference. 
Count  Arnim  entered  the  cabinet,  and  I  beheld  a  Prussian  Jew.  So 
you  see,  my  dear  Coningsby,  that  the  world  is  governed  by  very 
different  personages  to  what  is  imagined  by  those  who  are  not  behind 
the  scenes.  Favored  by  nature  and  by  nature's  God,  we  produced 
the  lyre  of  David ;  we  gave  you  Isaiah  and  Ezekiel ;  they  are  our 
Olynthiacs,  our  Philippics.  Favored  by  nature  we  still  remain ;  but 
in  exact  proportion  as  we  hare  been  favored  by  nature  we  have  been 
persecuted  by  man.  After  a  thousand  struggles,  —  after  acts  of  heroic 
courtige  that  Rome  has  never  equaled,  —  deeds  of  divine  patriotism 


DISRAELI.  173 

liat  Athens  and  Sparta  and  Cartilage  have  never  excelled,  —  we  have 
iidured  fifteen  hundred  years  of  supernatural  slavery ;  during  which 
t  very  dtrvice  tliat  can  degrade  or  destroy  man  has  been  the  destiny 
that  we  luive  sustained  and  l)altted. 

The  Hebrew  child  has  entered  adolescence  only  to  leani  that  he 
wiis  the  Pariah  of  that  ungrateful  Europe  that  owes  to  him  the  best 
part  of  its  laws,  a  fine  portion  of  its  literature,  all  its  religion.  Great 
j)oets  require  a  public;  we  have  been  content  with  the  immortid 
melodies  that  we  sung  more  than  two  thousand  years  ago  by  the 
waters  of  Babylon  and  wept.  They  record  our  triumphs  ;  they  solace 
our  affliction.  Great  orators  are  the  creatures  of  popular  assemblies ; 
we  were  permitted  only  by  stealth  to  meet  even  in  our  temples.  And 
as  for  great  writers,  the  catalogue  is  not  blank.  What  are  all  the 
-rhoolmen,  Aquinas  himself,  to  Maimonides?  *  and  as  for  modern 
j)hilosophy,  all  springs  from  Spinoza!  f  But  the  passionate  and 
creative  genius  that  is  the  nearest  link  to  divinity,  and  which  no 
human  tyranny  can  destroy,  though  it  can  divert  it;  that  should  have 
-tirred  the  hearts  of  nations  by  its  inspired  sympathy,  or  governed 
M'liatcs  by  its  burning  eloquence,  has  found  a  medium  for  its  expres- 
sion, to  which,  ill  spite  of  your  prejudices  and  your  evil  passions, 
Nou  have  been  obliged  to  bow. 

The  ear,  the  voice,  the  fancy  teeming  with  combinations,  —  the  im- 
iijination  fervent  with  picture  and  emotion,  that  came  from  Caucasus, 
uid  wiiich  we  have  preserved  unpolluted,  —  have  endowed  us  with 
linost  the  exclusive  privilege  of  music;  that  science  of  harmonious 
-ounds  which  the  ancients  recognized  as  most  divine,  and  deified  in 
the  person  of  their  most  beautiful  creation.  I  speak  not  of  the  past ; 
though  were  I  to  enter  into  the  history  of  the  lords  of  melody,  you 
would  find  it  the  annals  of  Hebrew  genius.  But  at  this  moment, 
'  ven,  musical  Europe  is  ours.  There  is  not  a  company  of  singers,  not 
iM  orchestra  in  a  single  capital,  that  are  not  crowded  with  our  chil- 
li ren,  under  the  feigned  names  which  they  adopt  to  conciliate  the  dark 
avi-rsion  which  your  posterity  will  some  day  disclaim  with  shame  and 

*  Maimoxidiui.  a  Jewish  Rahhi  and  pliilotopher  of  fcrrat  celebrity,  born  in  Spain  aboat 
11.18,     He  arquirrd  n  great  reputation  for  sagacity  and  learning. 

♦  SpiNor.A  A  rrl.-hrated  pantheistical  philosopher  liom  of  Jewish  parents  in  Holland,  in  16.12. 
Vt  an  early  ngr  he  annowued  opiaioBS  which  were  considered  heretical  and  fur  whtcU  he  was 
•  xeommuniratrtl  i>y  the  Jeva.  He  yaeeed  his  life  as  a  aoUtarjr  radaae,  his  character  being,  ac- 
eotdfaig  to  Ml  entinent  writer,  "one  of  Um  aMat  devout  on  record,  for  his  life  was,  in  a  manner, 
OM  «BbrokMi  bynm."    See  Pnmde'i  A»r<  a«du»  < 


174  cathcart's  literary  readkr. 

(lis^st.  Almost  every  great  composer,  skilled  musician,  almost  evpn 
voice  that  ravishes  you  with  its  transportinjo;  strains,  spring  from  our 
tribes.  The  catalogue  is  too  vast  to  enumerate ;  too  illustrious  to 
dwell  for  a  moment  on  secondary  names,  however  eminent.  Enough 
for  us  that  the  three  great  creative  minds  to  whose  exquisite  inventions 
all  nations  at  this  moment  yield  —  Rossini,  Meyerbeer,  Mendelssohn, 
—  are  of  Hebrew  race ;  and  little  do  your  men  of  fashion,  your  '*  Mus- 
cadins"  of  Paris  and  your  dandies  of  London,  as  they  thrill  into  rap- 
tures at  the  notes  of  a  Pasta  or  a  Grisi,  —  little  do  they  suspect  that 
they  are  offering  homage  to  the  sweet  singers  of  Israel. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON.* 

The  House  of  Commons  is  called  upon  to-night  to  fulfil  a  sor- 
rowful, but  a  noble,  duty.  It  has  to  recognize,  in  the  face  of  the 
country,  and  of  the  civilized  world,  the  loss  of  the  most  illustrious  of 
our  citizens,  and  to  offer  to  the  ashes  of  the  great  departed  the  solemn 
anguish  of  a  bereaved  nation.  The  princely  personage  who  has  left 
us  was  bom  in  an  age  more  fertile  of  great  events  than  any  period  of 
recorded  time.  Of  those  vast  incidents  the  most  conspicuous  were 
his  own  deeds,  and  these  were  performed  with  the  smallest  means, 
and  in  defiance  of  the  greatest  obstacles.  He  was,  therefore,  not  only 
a  great  man,  but  the  greatest  man  of  a  great  age.  Amid  the  chaos 
and  conflagration  which  attended  the  end  of  the  last  century  there  rose 
one  of  those  beings  who  seem  boni  to  master  mankind.  It  is  not 
too  much  to  say  that  Napoleon  combined  the  imperial  ardor  of  Alex- 
ander with  the  strategy  of  Hannibal.  The  kings  of  the  earth  fell 
before  his  fiery  and  subtile  genius,  and  at  the  head  of  all  the  powers  of 
Europe  he  denounced  destruction  to  the  only  land  which  dared  to  be 
free.  The  Providential  superintendence  of  this  world  seems  seldom 
more  manifest  than  in  the  dispensation  which  ordained  that  the  French 
Emperor  and  Wellesley  should  be  lx)rn  in  the  same  year ;  that  in  the 
same  year  they  should  have  embraced  the  same  profession  ;  and  that, 
natives  of  distant  islands,  they  should  both  have  sought  their  military 
education  in  that  illustrious  land  which  each  in  his  turn  was  destined 

•  The  extract  is  from  a  speech  on  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  delivered  by  Mr.  Dis- 
raeli in  the  House  of  Commons  while  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  Wellington  was  the  greatest 
general  England  ever  produced.  His  most  famous  \-ictory  was  gained  over  Napoleon  at  the 
historic  battle  of  Waterloo.    He  was  bom  in  Ireland  in  1/69  and  died  in  1852. 


DISEAEM.  175 

*o  subjugate.     During  the  long  struggle  for  our  freedom,  our  glory,  I 

ay  say  our  existence,  Wellesley  fought  and  won  fifteen  pitched 

l)attifs,  all  of  the  highest  class,  —  concluding  with  one  of  those  crown- 

uxir  victories  which  give  a  color  and  aspect  to  history.     During  this 

pt  riotl  that  can  l)e  s<iid  of  him  which  can  l)e  said  of  no  other  captain, 

—  that  he  captured  three  thousand  ciinnon  from  the  enemy,  and  uever 

lost  a  single  gun.     The  greatness  of  his  exploits  was  only  equaled  by 

the  difficulties  he  overcame.     He  had  to  encounter  at  the  same  time  a 

tVeble  government,  a  factious  opposition,  and  a  distrustful  people, 

andalous  allies,  and  the  most  powerful  enemy  in  the  world.     He 

lined  victories  with  starving  troops,  and  carried  on  sieges  without 

)ols ;  and,  as  if  to  complete  the  fatality  which  in  this  sense  always 

waited  him,  when  he  had  succeeded  in  creating  an  army  worthy  of 

iloman  legions,  and  of  himself,  this  invincible  host  was  broken  up  on 

the  eve  of  the  greatest  conjuncture  of  his  life,  and  he  entered  the  field 

of  Waterloo  with  raw  levies,  and  discomfited  allies. 

But  the  star  of  Wellesley  never  paled.     He  has  been  called  for- 
.  for  fortune  is  a  divinity  that  ever  favors  those  who  are  alike 
•us  and  intrepid,  inventive  and  patient.     It  was  his  character 
it   1  ivat.  (1  his  career.     This  alike  achieved  his  exploits  and  guarded 
;,iHi  troni  vicissitudes.     It  was  his  sublime  self-control  that  regulated 
his  lofty  fate.     It  has  been  the  fashion  of  late  years  to  disparage  the 
tnilitary  character.     Forty  years  of  peace  have  hardly  qualified  us  to 
hv  aware  how  considerable  and  how  complex  are  the  qualities  which 
re  necessary  for  the  formation  of  a  great  general.     It  is  not  enough 
I  say  that  he  must  be  an  engineer,  a  geographer,  learned  in  human 
i.iture,  adroit  in  managing  mankind  ;  that  he  must  be  able  to  per- 
tbrra  the  highest  duties  of  a  minister  of  state,  and  sink  to  the  hum- 
l)lest  offices  of  a  commissary  and  a  clerk ;  but  he  has  to  disphiy  all  this 
knowledge,  and  he  must  do  all  these  things  at  the  same  time,  and 
under  extraordinary  circumstances.     At  the  same  moment  he  must 
think  of  the  eve  and  the  morjrow,  —  of  his  flanks  and  of  his  reserves ; 
1h*  must  carry  with  him  ammunition,  provisions,  hospitals ;  he  must 
ilculate  at  the  same  time  the  state  of  the  weather  and  the  moral 
(jualities  of  man;  and  all  these  elements,  which  are  perp<*tually  chang- 
ing, he  must  combine  amid  overwhelming  cold  or  overpowering  heat ; 
kiimietimes  amid  famine,  often  amid  the  thunder  of  artillery.     Behind 
|D  this,  too,  is  the  ever-present  image  of  his  countrv,  and  the  dread- 


I7()  (  ATIK  \i;i"->    i,iri.i;\i;Y    i;i.  vdi.k. 

or  launl.  \\\i\  ;;ll  tlif-^c  conjlictini:  idci^  iiui>t  lie  driven  j'roiii  the 
luiiitl  of  the  military  leader,  for  he  must  think  —  ami  mH  only 
think  he  must  tiiink  with  the  rapidity  of  lisrhtninir.  for  on  a  momect, 
'i:"i'-  "I"  1'--.  ill  j),ii>U  ihr  fair  (.f  tin-  tiiK-t  coiiiliiii.-Mioii.  and  on  a 
ini.m.iii.  ni<Mv  (.r  l.>-.  drpciids  jrjory  or  shame.  Doubtless,  all  this 
nia\  he  done  in  an  ordinary  manner,  by  an  ordinary  man;  as  we  see 
( v(  IV  day  of  onr  liv.  s  ordinary  men  making  successful  ministers  of 
>t;;i.  .  MHCib.>ful  speakers,  sueeessful  ::utliors.  Hut  to  do  all  this  with 
-viim-  is  sublime.  Doubtlt-v,  i,,  il,ii,k  drcpls  aiul  eleurly  in  the 
recess  of  a  aibinet  is  a  Hue  intellectual  demonstration,  but  to  think 
with  equal  depth  and  ecjual  elcjinu'ss  amid  bullets  is  the  most  eom- 
])li'tc  e\t  i-ei-e  ot"  the  iininan  lacidtit-.  Allliou'jli  tin-  niil:tar\  (■;ircfr 
of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  tills  so  large  a  space  in  history,  it  was 
only  a  comparatively  small  section  of  his  prolonged  and  illustrious 
life.  Only  eiulu  \rai--  eli].-,.!  I'imim  \  imi.-ra  I,,  W'ai,  rloo,  and  from 
the  date  of  lii-  tir-t  ennimi-vinn  lu  tlic  la-i  cannou-sliot  on  the  field 
of  battle  scant  1\  twenty  \eir^  e.n  he  eonnled.  A  t'ter  all  his  triumphs 
lie  was  d(  viined  tor  another  e  ;.  .r.  and  if  not  in  the  prime,  certainly 
in  tin-  jxTl'eetion  of  manhf>nd.  ln'  eonunene-d  a  civil  Cftreer  srnreely 
le<>  eminent  llian  tlio-e  niilil.n  aeliie\  eni.iil-  wliieli  will  live  torcNer 
in  history.  Thrice  was  he  the  amlmssador  of  his  sovereign  to  those 
great  historic  congresses  that  settled  the  affairs  of  Europe  ;  twice 
was  he  Secretary  of  State ;  twice  was  he  Coinniander-in-Cliief ;  and 
once  he  was  Prime  Minister  of  England.  His  lal)ors  lor  liis  country 
lasted  to  the  end  ;  and  he  died  the  active  chicrtain  of  that  famous  army 
to  whiidi  he  ]vA<  left  tlie  tradliinii  of  his  glory. 

The  Onke  of  Wellinuion  h  ft  to  Ids  countrymen  a  great  legacy, — 
urcatrr  even  than  ins  u-h)ry.  lie  h-ft  them  the  contemplation  of  his 
character.  1  will  not  say  his  conduct  revived  the  sense  of  duty  in 
Endand.  I  would  not  say  that  of  our  country.  But  that  his  con- 
dnet  in>])ire(l  public  life  with  a  ])nrer  and  more  masculine  tone  I 
cannot  (h)id)t.  ITis  career  rebukes  restless  vanity,  and  reprimands 
the  irrcLiuhir  ebnllitions  of  a  morbid  egotism.  I  doubt  not  that, 
amonu-  all  orders  of  IjiuHslimen,  from  those  with  the  liiu-lic-t  res])on- 
sibilities  of  onr  >oeit  ty  to  those  who  perform  the  humb]e>t  duties,  I 
dare  s:!\-  tliere  is  not  a  man  who  in  hi>  toil  and  his  perph-xiry  lias  not 
sometimes  thoiiu'ht  of  the  dnke  and  found  in  his  example  support  and 
solace. 

Thouo:h  he  lived  so  niueli  in  the  hearts  and  minds  of  his  country- 


DISRAELI.  1  /  / 

men,  —  though  he  occupied  such  eminent  posts  anil  fulfilled  such 
aup^ust  duties,  —  it  was  not  till  he  died  that  we  felt  what  a  space  he 
filled  in  the  feelings  and  thoughts  of  the  people  of  England.  Never 
was  the  inlluence  of  real  greatness  more  completely  asserted  than  on 
his  decease.  In  an  age  whose  boast  of  intellectual  equality  flatters  all 
our  self-complacencies,  the  world  suddenly  acknowledged  that  it  had 
lost  the  greatest  of  men ;  in  an  age  of  utility  the  most  industrious 
and  common-sense  people  in  the  world  could  find  no  vent  for  their 
woe  and  no  representative  for  their  sorrow  but  the  solemnity  of 
a  pageant ;  and  we  —  we  who  have  met  here  for  such  different  pur- 
poses—  to  investigate  the  sources  of  the  wealth  of  nations,  to  enter 
into  statistical  research,  and  to  encounter  each  other  in  fiscal  contro- 
versy—  we  present  to  the  world  the  most  sublime  and  touching  spec- 
tacle that  human  circumstances  can  well  produce,  —  the  spectacle  of  a 
Senate  mourning  a  Hero  ! 

There  have  been  some,  and  those,  too,  among  the  wisest  and  the 
wittiest  of  the  northern  and  western  races,  who,  touched  by  a  pre- 
sumptuous jealousy  of  the  long  predominance  of  that  Oriental  intellect 
to  which  they  owed  their  civilization,  would  have  persuaded  them- 
selves and  the  world  that  the  traditions  of  Sinai  and  Calvary  were 
fables.  Half  a  century  ago  Europe  made  a  violent  and  apparently 
successfid  effort  to  disembarrass  itself  of  its  Asian  faith.  The  most 
powerful  and  the  most  civilized  of  its  kingdoms,*  about  to  conquer 
the  rest,  shut  up  its  churches,  desecrated  its  altars,  massacred  and 
persecuted  their  sacred  servants,  and  announced  that  the  Hebrew 
creeds  which  Simon  Peter  brought  from  Palestine,  and  which  his 
successors  revealed  to  Clovis,  were  a  mockery  and  a  fiction.  "What 
has  l)een  the  result  ?  In  every  city,  town,  village,  and  hamlet  of  that 
great  kingdom,  the  divine  image  of  the  most  illustrious  of  Hebrews 
has  Ik^n  again  raised  amid  the  homage  of  kneeling  millions  ;  while,  in 
the  heart  of  its  bright  and  witty  capital,  the  nation  has  erected  the 
most  gorgeous  of  modern  temples, f  and  consecrated  its  marble  and 
gohlen  walls  to  the  name,  and  memory,  and  celestial  efficacy  of  a 
Hebrew  woman, 

•  FtASCE.  Whrn  the  crlchrmcil  Kniicli  UrM)liition  wai  nt  iU  hpjjfht,  the  nilors  nnd  their 
M\owen,  for  the  time  heinjr.  n-putlinted  the  Christian  religion,  and  tet  up  Papani^nt  in  its  stead, 
llie  Caniniuniits,  while  they  held  ixjucssiun  of  Paris,  during  the  recent  Frauco-Gcnuan  War, 
did  much  the  same  t\im)t.  but  it  was  shorter  lived. 

t  The  Church  of  the  Madeleine  in  Paris. 

8* 


178 


MAURY. 

1806-1873. 

MATTtiiw  FonTAiTfE  Maubt,  an  rreincnt  astronomer  and  hydroprapher,  was  bom  in  Spott- 
•yivania  County,  Virginia,  in  1806,  and  entered  the  United  States  Navy  in  1825.  He  devoted 
himself  assiduously  to  the  duties  of  his  profession,  and  m  1835  pulilislicd  a  Treatise  on  Natigation, 
which  was  adopted  as  a  tcxt'lxmk  in  the  Navy.  An  accident  having  rendered  him  incapable  of 
performing  sea-service,  he  devoted  himself  to  seientific  and  literary  work,  writing  extensively  on 
such  subjects  as  the  Gulf  Stream,  National  Drfensrs,  OeerlanJ  Communication  with  the  Pacific, 
etc.  To  his  foresight  and  influence  are  due  the  expeditions  for  exploring  the  Amazon  and  tlie 
Rio  dc  hi  PUta.  Under  his  direction  the  National  Observatory  speedily  assumed  an  equal  rank 
witli  the  best  similar  institutions  in  the  world.  Lieutenant  Maura's  lalmrs  in  the  department 
of  Hydrography  give  him  a  title  to  lasting  and  honorable  fame.  His  wind  and  current  charts 
and  the  accompanying  Ixwk  of  Sailintf  Direetions  must  be  regarded  as  the  most  important  work 
of  the  century  in  its  bearing  on  navigation.  In  1854  Mr.  Maury  visited  Europe  and  excited 
attention  by  his  inquiry  mto  the  ocean  current,  local  winds,  etc.  In  illustration  of  these  subjects 
he  published  his  celebrated  Physical  Geography  of  the  Sea,  with  charts  and  diagrams,  which  has 
been  translated  into  several  language*.    Both  of  our  extract*  are  from  this  work. 


THE  OULF  8TBEAX. 

There  is  a  river  in  the  ocean.  In  the  severest  drouorhts  it  never 
fails,  and  in  the  mightiest  floods  it  never  overflows.  Its  banks  and 
its  bottom  arc  of  cold  water,  while  its  cuiTent  is  of  warm.  The  GiUf 
of  Mexico  is  its  fountain,  and  its  mouth  is  in  the  Arctic  Seas.  It  is 
the  Gulf  Stream.  There  is  in  the  world  no  other  such  majestic  flow 
of  waters.  Its  current  is  more  rapid  than  the  Mississippi  or  the 
Amazon,  and  its  volume  more  than  a  thousand  times  greater. 

The  currents  of  the  ocean  are  among  the  most  important  of  its 
movements.  They  carry  on  a  constant  interchange  between  the 
waters  of  the  poles  and  those  of  the  equator,  and  thus  diminish  the 
extremes  of  heat  and  cold  in  every  zone. 

The  sea  has  its  climates  as  well  as  the  land.  They  both  change 
with  the  latitude ;  but  one  varies  with  the  elevation  above,  the  other 
with  the  depression  below,  the  sea  level.  The  climates  in  each  are 
regulated  by  circulation  :  but  the  regulators  are,  on  the  one  hand, 
wdnds ;  on  the  other,  currents. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  ocean  are  as  much  the  creatures  of  climate 
as  are  those  of  the  diy  land;  for  the  same  Almighty  hand  which 
decked  the  lily  and  cares  for  the  spaiTOW  fashioned  also  the  pearl  and 
feeds  the  great  whale,  and  adapted  each  to  the  physical  conditions  by 
which  his  providence  has  surrounded  it.     Whether  of  the  land  or  the 


MAURY.  179 

sea,  the  inhabitants  are  all  his  creatures,  subjects  of  his  laws,  and 
agents  in  his  economy.  The  sea,  therefore,  we  may  safely  infer,  has 
its  offices  and  duties  to  perform ;  so,  may  we  infer,  have  its  currents ; 
and  so,  too,  its  inhabitants :  consequently,  he  who  undertakes  to 
study  its  plienomena  must  cease  to  regard  it  as  a  waste  of  waters. 
He  must  look  upon  it  as  a  part  of  that  exquisite  machinei-y  by  which 
the  harmonies  of  nature  are  preserved,  and  then  he  will  begin  to 
perceive  the  developments  of  order  and  the  evidences  of  design. 

From  the  Arctic  Seas  a  cold  current  flows  along  the  coasts  of 
America,  to  replace  the  warm  water  sent  through  the  Gulf  Stream  to 
moderate  the  cold  of  Western  and  Northern  Europe.  Perhaps  the 
best  indication  as  to  these  cold  currents  may  be  derived  from  the  fishes 
of  the  sea.  The  whales  first  pointed  out  the  existence  of  the  Gulf 
Stream  by  avoiding  its  warm  waters.  Along  the  coasts  of  the  United 
States  all  those  delicate  animals  and  marine  productions  which  delight 
in  warmer  waters  are  wanting  ;  thus  indicating,  by  their  absence,  the 
cold  current  from  the  north  now  known  to  exist  there.  In  the  genial 
warmth  of  the  sea  about  the  Bermudas  on  one  hand,  and  Africa  on 
the  other,  we  find  in  great  abundance  those  delicate  shell-fish  and 
coral  formations  which  are  altogether  wanting  in  the  same  latitudes 
along  the  shores  of  South  Carolina. 

No  part  of  the  world  affords  a  more  difficult  or  dangerous  naviga- 
tion than  the  approaches  of  the  northern  coasts  of  the  United  States 
in  winter.  Before  the  warmth  of  the  Gulf  Stream  was  known,  a  voy- 
age at  this  season  from  Europe  to  New  Englatid,  New  York,  and  even 
to  the  capes  of  the  Delaware  or  Chesapeake,  was  many  times  more  try- 
ing, difficult,  and  dangerous  than  it  now  is.  In  making  this  part  of  the 
coast  vessels  are  frequently  met  by  snow-storms  and  gales  which  mock 
the  seaman's  strength  and  set  at  naught  his  skill.  In  a  little  while  his 
l)ark  becomes  a  mass  of  ice ;  with  her  crew  frosted  and  helpless,  she 
remains  oliedient  oidy  to  her  helm,  and  is  kept  away  for  the  Gulf 
Stream.  After  a  few  hours'  run  she  reaches  its  edge,  and  almost  at 
the  next  l)ound  passes  from  the  midst  of  winter  into  a  sea  at  summer 
heat.  Now  the  ice  disappears  from  her  apparel,  and  the  sailor  bathes 
his  stiffened  limbs  in  tepid  waters.  Feeling  himself  invigomted  and 
refreshe<l  with  the  genial  warmth  al)out  him,  he  realizes  out  there  at 
sea  the  fable  of  Antaeus  and  his  mother  Earth.  He  rises  up  and  at- 
tempts to  make  his  port  again,  and  is  again,  perhaps,  as  rudely  met 
and  beat  back  from  tl»e  northwest ;  but  each  time  that  he  is  driven  oflf 


180  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

from  the  contest,  he  comes  forth  from  this  stream,  like  the  ancient 
son  of  Neptune,  stronger  and  stronger,  until,  after  many  days,  his 
freshened  strength  prevails,  and  he  at  last  triumphs  and  enters  his 
haven  in  safety,  though  in  this  contest  he  sometimes  falls  to  rise  no 
more. 

The  ocean  currents  are  partly  the  result  of  the  immense  evaporation 
which  takes  place  in  the  tropical  regions,  where  the  sea  greatly  exceeds 
the  land  in  extent.  The  enormous  quantity  of  water  there  carried  off 
by  evaporation  disturbs  the  equilibrium  of  the  seas;  but  this  is 
restored  by  a  perpetual  flow  of  water  from  the  poles.  When  these 
streams  of  cold  water  leave  the  poles  they  flow  directly  toward  the 
equator ;  but,  before  proceeding  far,  their  motion  is  deflected  by  the 
diurnal  motion  of  the  earth.  At  the  poles  they  liave  no  rotary  mo- 
tion, and  although  they  gain  it  more  and  more  in  their  progress  to 
the  equator,  which  revolves  at  the  rate  of  a  thousand  miles  an  hour, 
they  arrive  at  the  tropics  before  they  have  gained  the  same  velocity  of 
rotation  with  the  intertropical  ocean.  On  that  account  they  are  left 
behind,  and,  consequently,  flow  in  a  direction  contrar}'  to  the  diurnal 
rotation  of  the  earth.  Hence  the  whole  surface  of  the  ocean  for  thirty 
degrees  on  each  side  of  the  equator  flows  in  a  stream  or  current  three 
thousand  miles  broad  from  east  to  west.  The  trade  winds,  which 
constantly  blow  in  one  direction,  combine  to  give  this  great  Equato- 
rial Current  a  mean  velocity  of  ten  or  eleven  miles  in  twenty-four 
hours. 

Were  it  not  for  the  land,  such  would  be  the  uniform  and  constant 
flow  of  the  waters  of  the  ocean.  The  presence  of  the  land  interrupts 
the  regularity  of  this  great  western  movement  of  the  waters,  sending 
them  to  the  north  or  south,  according  to  its  conformation. 

The  principal  branch  of  the  Equatorial  Current  of  the  Atlantic  takes 
a  northwesterly  direction  from  off"  Cape  St.  Roque,  in  South  America. 
It  rushes  along  the  coast  of  Brazil,  and,  after  passing  through  the 
Caribbean  Sea,  and  sweeping  round  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  it  flows 
between  Florida  and  Cuba,  and  enters  the  North  Atlantic  under  the 
name  of  the  Gulf  Stream,  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the  oceanic  cur- 
rents. 

In  the  Strait  of  Florida  the  Gulf  Stream  is  thirty-two  miles  wide, 
two  thousand  two  hundred  feet  deep,  and  flows  at  the  rate  of  four 
miles  an  hour.  Its  waters  are  of  the  purest  ultramarine  blue  as  far 
as  the  coasts  of  Carolina  ;  and  so  completely  are  they  separated  from 


MAUEY.  181 

the  sea  through  which  they  flow,  that  a  ship  may  be  seen  at  times 
half  in  the  one  and  half  in  the  other. 

As  a  rule,  the  hottest  water  of  tiie  Gulf  Stream  is  at  or  near  the 
surface  ;  and  as  the  deep-sea  thermometer  is  sent  down,  it  shows  that 
these  waters,  though  still  much  warmer  than  the  water  on  either  side 
at  corresponding  depths,  gradually  become  less  and  less  warm  until 
the  bottom  of  the  current  is  reached.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that 
the  warm  waters  of  the  Gulf  Stream  arc  nowhere  permitted,  in  the 
oceanic  economy,  to  touch  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  There  is  everywhere 
a  cushion  of  cool  water  between  them  and  the  solid  parts  of  the 
earth's  crust.  This  arrangement  is  suggestive,  and  strikingly  beiiuti- 
ful.  One  of  the  benign  offices  of  the  Gulf  Stream  is  to  convey  heat 
from  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  —  where  otherwise  it  would  become  exces- 
sive, —  and  to  dispense  it  in  regions  beyond  the  Atlantic,  for  the 
amelioration  of  the  climates  of  the  British  Islands  and  of  all  Western 
Europe.  Now,  cold  water  is  one  of  the  best  non-conductors  of  heat, 
but  if  the  warm  water  of  the  Gulf  Stream  were  sent  across  the  Atkn- 
tic  in  contact  with  the  solid  crust  of  the  earth,  comparatively  a  good 
conductor  of  heat,  instead  of  being  sent  across,  as  it  is,  in  contact 
with  a  non-conducting  cushion  of  cool  water  to  fend  it  from  the 
bottom,  all  its  heat  would  be  lost  in  the  first  part  of  the  way,  and  the 
soft  climates  of  both  France  and  England  would  be  as  that  of  Labra- 
dor, severe  in  the  extreme,  and  ice-bound. 

It  has  been  estimated  that  the  quantity  of  heat  discharged  over 
the  Atlantic  from  the  waters  of  the  Gulf  Stream,  in  a  winter's  day, 
would  be  sufficient  to  raise  the  whole  column  of  atmosphere  that 
rests  upon  France  and  the  British  Islands  from  the  freezing  point  to 
summer  heat. 

Every  west  wind  that  blows  crosses  the  stream  on  its  way  to  Europe, 
and  carries  with  it  a  portion  of  this  heat  to  temper  there  the  northern 
winds  of  winter.  It  is  the  influence  of  this  stream  that  makes  Erin 
the  "  Emerald  Isle  of  the  Sea,"  and  that  clothes  the  shores  of  Albion 
in  evergreen  rol)es  ;  while,  in  the  same  latitude,  the  coasts  of  Labrador 
are  fast  bound  in  fetters  of  ice. 

As  the  Gulf  Sti*eam  proceeds  on  its  course,  it  gnulually  increases 
in  width.  It  flows  along  the  coast  of  North  America  to  Newfound- 
land, where  it  turns  to  the  east,  one  branch  setting  towanls  the  Brit- 
ish Islands,  and  away  to  the  coasts  of  Norway  and  the  Arctic  Ocean. 
Another  branch  reaches  the  Azores,  from  which  it  bends  round  to  the 


i^-  CATliCART.S    LITKRAIIY    READER. 

south,  and,  after  running  along  the  African  coast,  it  n^joins  the  great 
equatorial  flow,  leaving  a  vast  space  of  nearly  motionless  water  be- 
tween the  Azores,  the  Canaries,  and  Cape  de  Verd  Islands.  Tliis 
g^reat  area  is  the  Grassy  or  Sargasso  Sea,  covering  a  space  many 
times  larger  than  the  British  Islands.  It  is  so  thickly  matted  over 
with  gulf  weeds  that  the  speed  of  vessels  passing  through  it  is  often 
much  retarded.  When  the  companions  of  Columbus  saw  it,  they 
thought  it  marked  the  limits  of  navigation,  and  became  alarmed.  To 
the  eye,  at  a  little  distance,  it  seems  substantial  enough  to  walk  upon. 
Patches  of  the  weed  are  alwiiys  to  be  seen  floating  along  the  outer 
edge  of  the  Gulf  Stream.  Now,  if  bits  of  cork  or  chaff,  or  any  float- 
ing substance,  be  put  into  a  Ixisin,  and  a  circular  motion  be  given  to 
the  water,  all  the  light  substances  will  be  found  crowding  together 
near  the  centre  of  the  pool  where  there  is  the  least  motion.  Just 
such  a  basin  is  the  Atlantic  Ocean  to  the  Gulf  Stream ;  and  the  Sar- 
gasso Sea  is  the  center  of  the  whirl.  Columbus  first  found  this 
weedy  sea,  in  his  voyage  of  discovery ;  there  it  has  remained  to  this 
day,  moving  up  and  down,  and  changing  its  position  like  the  calms 
of  Cancer,  according  to  the  seasons,  the  storms,  and  the  winds. 
Exact  observations  as  to  its  limits  and  their  ran^e,  extending  back  for 
fifty  years,  assure  us  that  its  mean  position  has  not  been  altered  since 
that  time. 

THE  AIS  AKD   SEA. 

We  have  already  said  that  the  atmosphere  forms  a  spherical  shell, 
surrounding  the  earth  to  a  depth  which  is  unknown  to  us,  by  reason 
of  its  growing  tenuity,  as  it  is  released  from  the  pressure  of  its  own 
superincumbent  mass.  Its  upper  surface  cannot  be  nearer  to  us  than 
fifty,  and  can  scarcely  be  more  remote  than  five  hundred  miles.  It 
surrounds  us  on  all  sides,  yet  we  see  it  not ;  it  presses  on  us  with  a 
load  of  fifteen  pounds  on  every  square  inch  of  surface  of  our  bodies, 
or  from  seventy  to  one  hundred  tons  on  us  in  all,  yet  we  do  not  so 
much  as  feel  its  weight.  Softer  than  the  finest  down,  more  impalpa- 
ble than  the  finest  gossamer,  it  leaves  the  cobweb  undisturbed,  and 
scarcely  stirs  the  lightest  flower  that  feeds  on  the  dew  it  supplies ;  yet  it 
bears  the  fleets  of  nations  on  its  wings  around  the  world,  and  crushes 
the  most  refractory  substances  with  its  weight.  When  in  motion, 
its  fofce  is  sufficient  to  level  with  the  earth  the  most  stately  forests 
and  stable  buildings,  to  raise  the  waters  of  the  ocean  into  ridges  like 


MAUEY.  1^'i 

mountains,  and  dash  the  stronj^cst  ships  to  pieces  like  toys.  It  warms 
and  cools  by  turns  the  earth  and  the  living  creatures  that  inhabit  it. 
It  draws  up  vapors  from  the  sex  and  land,  retains  them  dissolved  in 
itself  or  suspended  in  cisterns  of  clouds,  and  throws  them  down  again 
as  rain  or  dew,  when  they  are  required.  It  bends  the  rays  of  the  sun 
from  their  path  to  give  us  the  aurora  of  the  morning  and  twilight 
of  evening  ;  it  disperses  and  refracts  their  various  tints  to  bciiutify  the 
approiich  and  the  retreat  of  the  orb  of  day.  But  for  the  atmosphere, 
sunshine  would  burst  on  us  in  a  moment  and  fail  us  in  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye,  removing  us  in  an  instant  from  midnight  darkness 
to  the  blaze  of  noon.  We  should  have  no  twilight  to  soften  and 
beautify  the  landscape,  no  clouds  to  shade  us  from  the  scorching 
heat ;  but  the  bald  earth,  as  it  revolved  on  its  axis,  would  turn  its 
tanned  and  weakened  front  to  the  full  unmitigated  rays  of  the  lord  of 
day. 

The  atmosphere  affords  the  gas  which  vivifies  and  warms  our  frames  ; 
it  receives  into  itself  that  which  has  been  polluted  by  use,  and  is 
thrown  off  as  noxious.  It  feeds  the  flame  of  life  exactly  as  it  does 
that  of  the  fire.  It  is  in  both  cases  consumed,  in  both  cases  it  affords 
the  food  of  consumption,  and  in  both  cases  it  becomes  combined  with 
charcoal,  which  requires  it  for  combustion,  and  which  removes  it  when 
combustion  is  over.  It  is  the  girdling,  encircling  air  that  makes  the 
whole  world  kin.  The  carbonic  acid  with  which  body  our  breathing 
fills  the  air,  to-morrow  seeks  its  way  round  the  world.  The  date- 
trees  that  grow  round  the  falls  of  the  Nile  will  drink  it  in  by  their 
leaves  ;  the  cedars  of  Lebanon  will  take  of  it  to  add  to  their  stature ; 
the  cocoa-nuts  of  Tahiti  will  grow  rapidly  upon  it ;  and  the  palms 
and  bananas  of  Japan  will  change  it  into  flowers.  The  oxygen  we 
are  breathing  was  distilled  for  us  some  short  time  ago  by  the  magno- 
lias of  the  Susquehanna,  and  the  great  trees  that  skirt  the  Orinoco  and 
the  Amazon  ;  the  giant  rhododendrons  of  the  Himalayas  contributed 
to  it,  and  the  roses  and  myrtles  of  Cashmere,  the  cinnamon-tree  of 
Ceylon,  and  the  forest,  older  than  the  flood,  that  lies  buried  deep  in 
the  heart  of  Africa,  far  l)ehind  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  gave  it  out. 
The  rain  we  see  descending  was  thawed  for  us  out  of  the  icebergs 
which  have  watched  the  Polar  Star  for  ages,  or  it  came  from  snows 
that  rested  on  the  summits  of  the  Alps,  but  which  the  lotus  lilies  have 
soaked  up  from  the  Nile,  aud  exhaled  as  vapor  again  into  the  ever- 
present  air. 


184  c  \i  lie Ai;  1 '>    i,rn.i;Ai;v    i;i;ader. 

There  are  processes  no  less  iiiU  n  stin^:  iioiiiL:  on  in  otlur  parts  of 
this  magnificent  fu  Id  of  n^canli.  Water  is  Nature's  carrier:  with 
its  currents  it  coiiV(\ s  lu,,i  awav  from  the  torrid  zone  and  ici*  from 
the  frigid  ;  or.  liotllmi^r  the  caloric  away  in  tlic  vc;<icl(s  of  ii^  vapor, 
it  first  makes  it  inipiiipabh'.  and  tlien  convevs  it,  1)^  unlcnown  paths, 
to  tlic  nio.st  distant  parts  of  tlic  larth.  The  materials  of  which  the 
coral  builds  the  island  and  the  sea-conch  its  shell  an'  •i:atliri>(i  hv 
this  restless  leveler  from  mouiit«iin?,  rocks,  and  valleys  in  all  latitudes. 
Some  it  washes  down  from  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  or  out  of  the 
gold-fields  of  Australia,  or  from  tlic  niin(s  of  Potosi,  others  from 
the  battle-fields  of  Europe,  or  from  tlu;  marble-qmirries  of  ancient 
Greece  and  Rome.  These  mUd lals,  thus  collected  and  carried  over 
falls  or  down  rapids,  are  transported  from  river  to  sea,  and  deliv- 
ered by  the  obedient  waters  to  each  insect  and  to  every  plant  in  the 
ocean  at  the  right  time  and  temperature,  in  proper  form  and  in  due 
quantity. 

Treating  the  roclcs  less  gently,  it  grinds  them  into  dust,  or  pounds 
them  into  sand,  or  rolls  and  nibs  them  until  they  are  fashioned  into 
pibbles,  rubble,  or  bowlders ;  the  sand  and  shingle  on  the  sea-shore 
are  monuments  of  the  abradin*;,  triturating  power  of  water.  By 
water  the  soil  has  been  brought  down  from  the  hills,  and  spread 
out  into  valleys,  plains,  and  fields  for  man's  use.  Saving  the  rocks  on 
which  the  everlasting  hills  are  established,  every  thing  on  the  surface 
of  our  planet  seems  to  have  been  removed  from  its  ori<rinal  founda- 
tion and  lodged  in  its  present  place  by  water.  Protean  in  shape,  be- 
nignant in  oflSce,  water,  whether  fresh  or  salt,  solid,  fluid,  or  gaseous, 
is  marvelous  in  its  powers. 

It  is  one  of  the  chief  agents  in  the  manifold  workshops  in  which 
and  by  which  the  earth  has  been  made  a  habitation  fit  for  man. 


WILLIS.  185 

WILLIS. 

1806- 1867. 

NATBAimn.  Pamch  Willis  vm  born  in  Portland,  Maine,  in  January,  1808.  He  wu  the  ion 
of  Nathaniel  Willis,  and  the  brother  of  Sarah  Payson  Willis  (Fanny  Fern).  Graduating  at  Yale 
CoUrge  in  1927,  he  at  once  entered  upon  a  literary  life.  In  \H-29  he  established  the  American 
Monthly  Magazine,  which,  three  years  later,  was  merged  in  the  New  York  Mirror,  of  which  Mr. 
Willis  became  editor,  in  association  with  George  P.  Morris.  He  made  several  voyages  to  Europe, 
and  was  admitted  to  the  best  literary  society  of  England.  He  died  at  Idlewild,  his  beautiful 
borne  on  the  Hudson  River.  January  20,  1867  His  first  volume  of  verse,  called  Sketches,  waa 
published  in  1827.  His  first  pro*c  book,  PeHciUings  by  the  Way  (1836),  attracted  a  good  deal  of 
notice  in  Englan-l,  and  a  review  of  it,  written  by  Captain  Marryat,  led  to  a  duel  between  himself 
and  Mr.  Willis.  Among  the  most  notable  of  the  twenty-seven  volumes  of  prose  and  verse  which 
bear  his  name,  are  Letters  from  under  a  Bridge,  Loiterings  by  the  H'ay,  People  I  Have  Met,  and 
Dashe-i  at  Life  teith  a  Free  Pmcil.  One  of  his  latest  works  was  Paul  Fane,  a  novel,  which  did 
not  enhance  his  reputation.  Mr.  Willis  is  best  known  in  literature  as  a  writer  of  sketches  of 
society.  He  was  at  once  a  "  society  man  "  and  a  litlerutrur,  and  rejoiced  in  such  opportunities 
of  appearing  in  his  twofold  character  a»  were  afforded  in  such  sketches,  in  the  writing  of  which 
he  displayed  peculiar  grace,  case,  and  admirable  audacity.  Wliile  the  hulk  of  his  writings  is 
of  a  somewhat  ephemeral  character,  he  was  sometimes  moved  by  a  loAier  ambition,  and  pro- 
duced matter  of  more  substantial  value.  Specimens  of  this  may  be  found  in  some  of  his  notes 
of  travel.  —  A  Health  Trip  to  the  Tropics,  and  A  Summer  Cruise  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  in  sev- 
eral religious  poems  of  marked  dignity  and  beauty.  These  poems  must  be  regarded  as  his  best 
productions;  and,  indeed,  few  poets  have  equaled  him  in  this  poetical  specialty.  In  Tht  Death 
of  Absalom,  the  dramatic  harmony,  the  sober  beauty  of  the  descriptive  passages,  and  the  noble 
grief  of  David,  combine  with  singuUtr  felicity  to  produce  a  powerful  and  enduring  effect  on  the 
reader's  mind.  Mr.  Willis's  versatility  was  remarkable ;  but  it  is  to  be  regnretted  that  he  lav- 
ished so  much  of  his  talent  upon  such  frivolous  subjects. 

THE  DEATH  OF  ABSALOM. 

The  waters  slept.     Night's  silver}'  veil  hung  low 

On  Jordan's  bosom,  and  the  eddies  curled 

Their  glassy  rings  beneath  it,  like  the  still, 

Unbroken  beating  of  the  sleeper's  pulse. 

The  reeds  bent  down  the  stream ;  the  willow  leases, 

With  a  soft  cheek  upon  the  lulling  tide. 

Forgot  the  lifting  winds  ;  and  the  long  stems, 

Whose  flowers  the  water,  like  a  gentle  nurse, 

Bears  on  its  bosom,  quietly  gave  way. 

And  leaned,  in  gracefid  attitudes,  to  rest. 

How  strikingly  the  course  of  nature  tells. 

By  its  light  heed  of  human  suflfering. 

That  it  was  fashioned  for  a  happier  world  I 


186  CATHc art's  literaey  reader. 

King  David's  limbs  were  weary.     He  had  fled 
From  far  Jerusalem ;  and  now  he  stood, 
With  his  faint  people,  for  a  little  rest 
Upon  the  shores  of  Jordan.     The  li«j:ht  wind 
Of  morn  was  stirring,  and  he  bared  his  brow 
To  its  refreshing  breath  ;  for  he  had  worn 
The  mourner's  covering,  and  he  had  not  felt 
That  he  could  see  his  people  until  now. 
They  gathered  round  him  on  the  fresh  green  bank, 
And  spoke  their  kindly  words  ;  and,  as  the  sun 
Rose  up  in  heaven,  he  knelt  among  them  there, 
And  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands  to  pray. 
Oh  !  when  the  heart  is  full,  —  when  bitter  thoughts 
Come  crowding  thickly  up  for  utterance. 
And  the  poor  common  words  of  courtesy 
Are  such  an  empty  mockery,  —  how  much 
The  bursting  heart  may  pour  itself  in  prayer ! 
He  prayed  for  Israel,  —  and  his  voice  went  up 
Strongly  and  fervently.     He  prayed  for  those 
Whose  love  had  been  his  shield,  —  and  his  deep  tones 
Grew  tremulous.     But,  oh  !  for  Absalom,  — 
For  his  estrangwl,  misguided  Absalom,  — 
The  proud,  bright  being,  who  had  burst  away 
In  all  his  princely  beauty,  to  defy 
The  heart  that  cherished  him,  —  for  him  he  poured, 
In  agony  that  would  not  be  controlled, 
Strong  supplication,  and  forgave  him  there. 
Before  his  God,  for  his  deep  sinfulness. 


The  pall  was  settled.     He  who  slept  beneath 
Was  straightened  for  the  grave  ;  and,  as  the  folds 
Sank  to  the  still  proportions,  they  betrayed 
The  matchless  symmetry  of  Absalom. 
His  hair  was  yet  unshorn,  and  silken  curls 
Were  floating  round  the  tassels  as  they  swayed 
To  the  admitted  air,  as  glossy  now 
As  when,  in  hours  of  gentle  dalliance,  bathing 
The  snowy  fingers  of  Judaea's  daughters. 
His  helm  was  at  his  feet ;  his  banner,  soiled 


WILLIS.  187 

With  trailing  through  Jerusalem,  was  laid, 

Reversed,  beside  him  ;  and  the  jeweled  hilt, 

Whose  diamonds  lit  the  passage  of  his  blade, 

Rested,  like  mockery,  on  his  covered  brow. 

The  soldiers  of  the  king  trod  to  and  fro. 

Clad  in  the  garb  of  battle ;  and  their  chief. 

The  mighty  Joab,  stood  beside  the  bier. 

And  gazed  upon  the  dark  pall  steadfastly. 

As  if  he  feared  the  slumberer  might  stir. 

A  slow  step  startled  him.     He  grasped  his  blade 

As  if  a  trumpet  rang  ;  but  the  bent  form 

Of  David  entered,  and  he  gave  command. 

In  a  low  tone,  to  his  few  followers. 

And  left  him  with  his  dead.     The  king  stood  still 

Till  the  last  echo  died  ;  then,  throwing  off 

The  sackcloth  from  his  brow,  and  laying  back 

The  pall  from  the  still  features  of  his  child, 

He  bowed  his  head  upon  him,  and  broke  forth 

In  the  resistless  eloquence  of  woe  :  — 

*•  Alas !  my  noble  boy  !  that  thou  shouldst  die ! 

Thou,  who  wert  made  so  beautifully  fair ! 
That  death  should  settle  in  thy  glorious  eye, 

And  leave  his  stillness  in  this  clustering  hair ! 
How  could  he  mark  thee  for  the  silent  tomb  ! 
My  proud  boy,  Absalom ! 

**  Cold  is  thy  brow,  my  son  !  and  I  am  chill, 
As  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  press  thee ! 

How  was  I  wont  to  feel  my  pulses  thrill. 

Like  a  rich  harp-string,  yearning  to  caress  thee, 

And  hear  thy  sweet  *  My  father  ! '  from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom  ! 

"  But  death  is  on  thee.     I  shall  hear  the  gush 

Of  music,  and  the  voices  of  the  young ; 
And  life  will  pass  me  in  the  mantling  blush, 

And  the  dark  tresses  to  the  soft  winds  fliuig ; 
But  thou  no  more,  with  thy  sweet  voice,  shalt  come 
To  meet  me.  Absalom  ! 


188  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

"  And  oh  !  when  I  am  stricken,  and  my  heart, 
Like  a  bruised  reed,  is  waiting  to  be  broken, 
•  How  will  its  love  for  thee,  as  I  depart. 

Yearn  for  thine  ear  to  drink  its  last  deep  token  I 
It  were  so  sweet,  amid  death's  gathering  gloom. 
To  see  thee,  Absalom  ! 

**  And  now,  farewell !  'T  is  hard  to  give  thee  up, 
With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on  thee ;  — 

And  thy  dark  sin  !  —  Oh  !  I  could  drink  the  cup. 
If  from  this  woe  its  bitterness  had  won  thee. 

May  God  have  called  thee,  like  a  wanderer,  home, 
My  lost  boy,  Absalom  !  " 

He  covered  up  his  face,  and  bowed  himself 
A  moment  on  his  child  :  then,  giving  him 
A  look  of  melting  tenderness,  he  clasped 
His  hands  convulsively,  as  if  in  prayer  ; 
And,  as  if  strength  were  given  him  of  God, 
He  rose  up  calmly,  and  composed  the  pall 
Firmly  and  decently  —  and  left  him  there  ^ 
As  if  his  rest  had  been  a  breathing  sleep. 

THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 

On  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South  bell 

The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well. 

In  summer  and  >vinter  that  bird  is  there, 

Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air ; 

I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street. 

With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet ; 

And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 

Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings. 

Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  passed. 

And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last ; 

'T  is  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note. 

And  the  trembling  tlirob  in  its  mottled  throat ; 

There  's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 

And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest ; 


WILLIS.  189 

And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel,  — 
He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

Whatever  is  ning  on  that  noisy  bell,  — 
Chime  of  the  hour,  or  funeral  knell,  — 
The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 
When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight  moon, 
When  the  sexton  cheerly  rings  for  noon, 
When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light, 
When  the  child  is  waked  with  "  nine  at  night," 
When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 
Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer,  — 
Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard. 
He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirred, 
Or,  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest. 
He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast. 
Then  drops  again,  with  filmed  eyes. 
And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  bird  !  I  woidd  that  I  could  be 
A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee  ! 
With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 
Thy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  with  men ; 
And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 
I  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street ; 
But,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er, 
Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world  and  soar ; 
Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest. 
Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy  breast, 
And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 

I  would  that  in  such  wings  of  gold 
I  could  my  weary  heart  upfold ; 
I  would  I  could  look  down  unmoved 
(Unloving  as  I  am  unloved), 
And  while  the  world  throngs  on  beneath. 
Smooth  down  my  cares  and  calmly  breathe ; 
And  never  sad  with  others'  sadness. 
And  never  glad  with  others'  gladness, 
Listen,  unstirred,  to  knell  or  chime, 
And,  lapped  in  quiet,  bide  my  time. 


190  cathcaet's  literary  reader. 

SIMMS. 
1806- 1870. 

William  Gilmou  Smus  was  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  in  1906,  and  died  in  1870. 
He  adopted  the  profession  of  the  law,  but,  like  Ir%ing  and  many  other  litterateurs,  abandoned  it 
for  the  more  cougenial  pursuits  of  literature.  He  published  his  first  volume,  Lyrical  and  other 
I'oems,  in  1»27,  and  during  the  next  twenty-seven  years  produced  no  less  than  thirteen  addi- 
tional volumes  of  verse.  He  labored  in  almost  every  department  of  literature,  writing  plays, 
histories,  biographies,  criticisms,  and  novels  of  various  kinds.  It  is  as  a  novelist  that  he  is 
best  known,  and  as  such  he  will  be  regarded  in  the  future.  His  best  work  in  this  specialty 
may  be  found  in  some  of  his  historical  romances,  such  as  ne  I'emauee,  The  Partisan,  and  Eutaw. 
What  Cooper  did  for  the  pioneer  life  of  the  Middle  States  was  done  by  Simnis  for  that  of  the 
South,  the  characteristic  features  of  whose  colonial  and  revolutionary  history  he  has  preserved 
in  a  series  of  spirited  and  faithfully  colored  narratives.  He  is  a  picturesque  and  vigorous  writer, 
evidently  inspired  by  his  subject  (L  e.  in  his  historical  romances),  cherishing  a  generous  pride 
in  the  annals  of  his  native  section  and  the  chivalrous  character  of  her  people.  Although 
his  books  have,  to  a  great  extent,  been  superseded,  as  have  Cooper's,  by  novels  which  deal 
with  later  times,  they  are  still  widely  read  and  admired.  Taking  into  account  the  variety  and 
amount  of  Mr.  Simms's  literary  work,  its  distinctively  American  character,  and  the  positive 
merit  poasessed  by  mnch  of  it,  hb  name  deserve*  to  be  cherished  among  those  of  the  most  hon- 
ored repreaentatives  of  our  literatore. 

THE  CHAKM   OF  THE  RATTLESNAKE. 

How  lieautiful  was  the  grrcen  and  g:arniture  of  that  little  copse  of 
wood  !  The  leaves  were  thick,  and  the  grass  around  lay  folded  over 
and  over  in  bunches,  with  here  and  there  a  wild-flower  gleaming  from 
its  green,  and  making  of  it  a  beautiful  carpet  of  the  richest  and  most 
beautiful  texture.  A  small  tree  arose  from  the  center  of  a  clump 
around  which  a  wild  grape  gadded  luxuriantly ;  and  with  an  inco- 
herent sense  of  what  she  saw,  the  maiden  lingered  before  the  little 
cluster,  seeming  to  survey  that  which,  though  it  fixed  her  eye,  failed 
to  fill  her  thought.  Her  mind  wandered,  her  soul  was  far  away ;  and 
the  objects  in  her  vision  were  far  other  than  those  which  occupied  her 
imagination.  Things  grew  indistinct  beneath  her  eye.  The  eye 
rather  slept  than  saw.  The  musing  spirit  had  given  holiday  to  the 
ordinary  senses,  and  took  no  heed  of  the  forms  that  rose,  and  floated 
or  glided  away  before  them. 

In  this  way  the  leaf  detached  made  no  impression  upon  the  sight 
that  was  yet  bent  upon  it ;  she  saw  not  the  bird,  though  it  whirled, 
untroubled  by  a  fear,  in  wanton  circles  around  her  head ;  and  the 
black  snake,  with  the  rapidity  of  the  arrow,  darted  over  her  path  with- 
out arousing  a  single  terror  in  the  form  that  otherwise  would  have 


SIMMS.  191 

shivered  at  its  mere  appearance.  And  yet,  though  thus  indistinct 
were  all  things  around  her  to  the  musing  eye  of  the  maiden,  her  eye 
was  singularly  fixed,  —  fastened,  as  it  were,  to  a  single  spot,  —  gath- 
ered anil  controlled  by  a  single  object,  and  glazed  apparently  beneath 
a  curious  fascination. 

Before  the  maiden  rose  a  little  clump  of  bushes,  bright  tangled 
leaves  flaunting  i^ndely  in  glossiest  green,  with  vines  trailing  over 
them,  thickly  decked  with  blue  and  crimson  flowers.  Her  eye  com- 
muned vacantly  with  these ;  fastened  by  a  starlike  shining  glance,  —  a 
subtile  ray  that  shot  out  from  the  circle  of  green  leaves,  —  seeming  to 
be  their  very  eye,  and  sending  out  a  lurid  luster  that  seemed  to 
stream  across  the  space  between,  and  find  its  way  into  her  own  eyes. 
Very  piercing  and  beautiful  was  that  subtile  brightness,  of  the  sweet- 
est, strangest  power. 

And  now  the  leaves  quivered  and  seemed  to  float  away,  only  to 
return,  and  the  vines  wavered  and  swung  around  in  fantastic  mazes, 
unfolding  ever-changing  varieties  of  form  and  color  to  her  gaze  ;  but 
the  starlike  eye  was  ever  steadfast,  bright,  and  gorgeous,  gleaming  in 
their  midst,  and  still  fastened  in  strange  fondness  upon  her  own. 
How  beautiful,  with  wondrous  intensity,  did  it  gleam  and  dilate, 
growing  larger  and  more  lustrous  with  every  ray  which  it  sent  forth. 
And  her  own  glanc€  became  intense,  fixed  also ;  but  with  a  dream- 
ing sense,  that  conjured  up  the  wildest  fancies,  terribly  beautiful, 
that  took  her  soul  away  from  her,  and  wrapt  it  about  as  with  a 
spell. 

She  would  have  fled ;  but  she  had  not  power  to  move.  The  will 
was  wanting  to  her  flight.  She  felt  that  she  could  have  bent  forward 
to  pluck  the  gemlike  thing  from  the  bosom  of  the  leaf  in  which  it 
seemed  to  grow,  and  which  it  irituliated  with  its  bright  gleam  ;  but 
even  as  she  aimed  to  stretch  forth  her  hand,  and  bend  forward,  she 
heard  a  rush  of  wings  and  a  shrill  scream  from  the  tree  above  her,  — 
such  a  scream  as  the  mocking-bird  makes,  when  angrily  it  raises 
its  dusky  crest,  and  flaps  its  wings  furiously  against  its  slender 
sides.  Such  a  scream  seemed  like  a  warning,  and,  though  yet  un- 
awakened  to  full  consciousness,  it  startled  her  and  forba<le  her  efl!"ort. 

More  than  once  in  her  survey  of  this  strange  object  had  she  heard 
that  shrill  note,  and  still  had  it  carried  to  her  ear  the  same  note  of 
warning,  and  to  her  mind  the  same  vague  consciousness  of  an  evil 
presence.     But  the  starlike  eye  was  yet  upon  her  own,  —  a  small. 


19£  cathcaet's  lttbeaey  eeadee. 

bright  eye,  quick  like  that  of  a  bird,  now  steady  in  its  place,  and  ob- 
servant seemingly  only  of  hers,  now  darting  forward  with  all  the  clus- 
tering leaves  about  it,  and  shooting  up  toward  her  as  if  wooing  her 
to  seize.  At  another  moment,  riveted  to  the  vine  which  lay  around 
it,  it  would  whirl  round  and  round,  dazzlingly  bright  and  beautiful, 
even  as  a  torch,  waving  hurriedly  by  night  in  the  hands  of  some  play- 
ful boy :  but  in  all  this  time  the  glance  was  never  taken  from  her 
own ;  there  it  grew  fixed,  —  a  very  principle  of  light ;  and  such  a 
light !  a  subtile,  burning,  piercing,  fascinating  gleam,  such  as  gathers 
in  vapor  above  the  old  grave,  and  binds  us  as  we  look ;  shooting, 
darting  directly  into  her  eye,  dazzling  her  gaze,  defeating  its  sense  of 
discrimination,  and  confusing  strangely  that  of  perception. 

She  felt  dizzy  ;  for,  as  she  looked,  a  cloud  of  colors,  bright,  gay, 
various  colors,  floated  and  hung  like  so  much  drapery  around  the  sin- 
gle object  that  had  so  secured  her  attention  and  spellbound  her  feet. 
Her  limbs  felt  momently  more  and  more  insecure,  her  blood  grew 
cold,  and  she  seemed  to  feel  the  gradual  freeze  of  vein  by  vein 
throughout  her  person.  At  that  moment  a  nistliug  was  heard  in  the 
branches  of  the  tree  beside  her,  and  the  bird  which  had  repeatedly  ut- 
tered a  single  cry  above  her,  as  it  were  of  warning,  flew  away  from 
his  station  with  a  scream  more  piercing  than  ever. 

This  movement  had  the  effect,  for  which  it  really  seemed  intended, 
of  bringing  back  to  her  a  portion  of  the  consciousness  she  seemed  to 
have  been  so  totally  deprived  of  before.  She  strove  to  move  from  be- 
fore the  beautiful  yet  terrible  presence,  but  for  a  while  strove  in  vain. 
The  rich  starlike  glance  still  riveted  her  own,  and  the  subtile  fascina- 
tion kept  her  bound. 

The  mental  energies,  however,  with  the  moment  of  their  greatest 
trial,  now  gathered  suddenly  to  her  aid  ;  and  with  a  desperate  effort, 
but  with  a  feeling  still  of  most  annoying  uncertainty  and  dread, 
she  succeeded  partially  in  the  attempt,  and  threw  her  arms  backward, 
her  hands  grasping  the  neighboring  tree,  feeble,  tottering,  and  de- 
pending upon  it  for  that  support  which  her  own  limbs  almost  entirely 
denied  her.  With  her  movement,  however,  came  the  full  develop- 
ment of  the  powerful  spell  and  dreadful  mystery  before  her.  As  her 
feet  receded,  though  but  a  single  pace,  to  the  tree  against  which  she 
now  rested,  the  audibly  articulate  ring,  like  that  of  a  watch  when 
wound  up  with  the  verge  broken,  announced  the  nature  of  that  splen- 
did yet  dangerous  presence,  in  the  form  of  the  monstrous  rattlesnake, 


SIMMS.  193 

now  but  a  few  feet  before  her,  lying  coiled  at  the  bottom  of  a  beautiful 
shrub,  with  which,  to  her  dreaming  eye,  many  of  its  own  glorious 
hues  had  become  associated. 


THE  SHADED  WATEB. 

When  that  my  mood  is  sad,  and  in  the  noise 
And  bustle  of  the  crowd  I  feel  rebuke, 

I  turn  my  footsteps  from  its  hollow  joys 
And  sit  me  down  beside  this  little  brook ; 

The  waters  have  a  music  to  mine  ear 

It  glads  me  much  to  hear. 

It  is  a  quiet  glen,  as  you  may  see, 

Shut  in  from  all  intnision  by  the  trees. 

That  spread  their  giant  branches,  broad  and  free. 
The  silent  growth  of  many  centuries ; 

And  make  a  hallowed  time  for  hapless  moods, 

A  Sabbath  of  the  woods. 

Few  know  its  quiet  shelter,  —  none,  like  me, 
Do  seek  it  out  with  such  a  fond  desire, 

Poring  in  idlesse  mood  on  flower  and  tree, 

And  listening  as  the  voiceless  leaves  respire,  — 

When  the  far-traveling  breeze,  done  wandering. 

Bests  here  his  weary  wing. 

And  all  the  day,  with  fancies  ever  new. 

And  sweet  companions  from  their  boundless  store, 
Of  merry  elves  bespangled  all  with  dew, 

Fantastic  creatures  of  the  old-time  lore. 
Watching  their  wild  but  unobtrusive  play, 
I  fling  the  hours  away. 

A  gracious  couch  —  the  root  of  an  old  oak 
Whose  branches  yield  it  moss  and  canopy  — 

Is  mine,  and,  so  it  be  from  woodman's  stroke 
Secure,  shall  never  be  resigned  by  me ; 

It  hangs  above  the  stream  that  idly  flies. 

Heedless  of  any  eyes. 

0  *  M 


194  cathcaet's  literary  reader. 

There,  with  eye  sometimes  shut,  but  upward  bent. 
Sweetly  I  muse  through  many  a  quiet  hour, 

While  every  sense  on  earnest  mission  sent, 

Returns,  thought-laden,  back  with  bloom  and  flower ; 

Pursuing,  though  rebuked  by  those  who  moil, 

A  profitable  toil. 

And  still  the  waters  trickling  at  my  feet 
Wind  on  their  way  with  gentlest  melody, 

Yielding  sweet  music,  which  the  leaves  repeat. 
Above  them,  to  the  gay  breeze  gliding  by,  — 

Yet  not  so  rudely  as  to  send  one  sound 

Through  the  thick  copse  around. 

Sometimes  a  brighter  cloud  than  all  the  rest 

Hangs  o'er  the  archway  opening  through  the  trees. 

Breaking  the  spell  that,  like  a  slumber,  pressed 
On  my  worn  spirit  its  sweet  luxuries,  — 

And,  with  awakened  vision  upward  bent, 

I  watch  the  firmament. 

How  like  —  its  sure  and  undisturbed  retreat. 
Life's  sanctuary  at  last,  secure  from  storm  — 

To  the  pure  waters  trickling  at  my  feet. 

The  bending  trees  that  overshade  my  form ! 

So  far  as  sweetest  things  of  earth  may  seem 

Like  those  of  which  we  dream. 

Such,  to  my  mind,  is  the  philosophy 

The  young  bird  teaches,  who,  with  sudden  flight. 

Sails  far  into  the  blue  that  spreads  on  high, 
Until  I  lose  him  from  my  straining  sight,  — 

With  a  most  lofty  discontent  to  fly. 

Upward,  from  earth  to  sky. 


MRS.    BROWNING.  195 

MRS.   BROWNING. 

1807-1861. 

ELiZABrrn  BAEmnr  wm  born  in  HertfonlBhire,  England,  in  1807,  and  died  at  Florence  in 
I'^l.  Her  marked  precocity  was  encouraged  by  her  admiring  relatives,  who  greeted  her 
juvenile  feats  in  literature  with  unbounded  commendation,  and  lavished  upon  her  every  educa- 
tional advantage  thait  wealth  could  procure.  At  the  age  of  ten  years  she  began  to  compose,  and 
•even  years  later  put  forth  her  first  volume,  Jn  Essay  oh  Mind,  with  other  Poems.  Although 
poMcasmg  unquestionable  merit,  these  juvenile  productions  did  not  warrant  the  expectation  of 
•och  liteivy  triumphs  as  she  afterwards  achieved.  But  they  must  be  regarded  as  preliminary 
exerdaes,  perhaps  essential  to  the  great  and  enduring  work  in  whicli  she  was  about  to  engage. 
This  work  is  represented  to  the  public  by  several  volumes  of  poems,  issued  between  1838  and  the 
year  of  her  death.  The  Seraphim,  The  RomauHt  of  the  ?age.  The  Drama  of  Exile,  etc.  In  1816 
Miss  Barrett  became  the  wife  of  Robert  Browning,  their  marriage  marking  one  of  the  most 
rrmarkable  and  felicitous  unions  on  record.  Although  distinctively  a  poet,  Mrs.  Browning  was 
not  merely  a  poet.  Her  scholarship  was  extensive  and  accurate,  and  some  of  her  critical  papers 
on  abstruse  subjects  entitle  her  to  high  rank  as  a  writer  of  prose.  For  several  years  the  poetical 
pair  had  their  home  in  luly,  and  Mrs.  Browning,  sympathizing  ardently  with  the  Italian  heart 
in  ita  struggles  toward  political  independence,  wrote  many  of  her  finest  poenu  on  Italian  themes 
and  inspired  by  Italian  enthusiasm.  Her  Ust  work  of  magnitude  was  Anrora  Leigh,  a  long  poem, 
m  which  she  gave  vehement,  though  somewhat  mystical  and  obscure,  expression  to  her  very  posi- 
tive opinions  as  to  the  nature  and  mission  of  woman.  Her  literary  faults  are  many  and  grave, 
the  chief  of  them  being  intentional  obscurity,  affectation  in  style,  and  carelessness  in  details ; 
but  with  the  basic  qualities  of  the  poet  she  was  grandly  endowed,  and  her  place  in  the  front 
ranks  of  English  singers  is  not  likely  to  be  qnesUoned. 

A  DEAD  BOSE. 

0  Rose  !  who  dares  to  name  thee  ? 
No  longer  roseate  now,  nor  soft,  nor  sweet ; 
But  barren,  and  hard,  and  dry  as  stubble-wheat. 

Kept  seven  years  in  a  drawer,  —  thy  titles  shame  thee. 

The  breeze  that  used  to  blow  thee 
Between  the  hedge-row  thorns,  and  take  away 
An  odor  up  the  lane,  to  last  all  day,  — 

If  breathing  now,  —  unsweetened  would  forego  thee. 

«• 

The  sun  that  used  to  smite  thee, 
And  mix  his  glory  in  thy  gorgeous  urn, 
Till  beam  appeared  to  bloom  and  flower  to  bum,  — 

If  shining  now,  —  with  not  a  hue  would  light  thee. 

The  dew  that  used  to  wet  thee. 
And,  white  first,  grew  incarnadined,  because 


196  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

It  lay  upon  thee  where  the  crimson  was,  — 

If  dropping  now,  —  would  darken  where  it  met  thee. 

The  fly  that  lit  upon  thee, 
To  stretch  the  tendrils  of  its  tiny  feet 
Along  the  leaf's  pure  edges  after  heat,  — 

If  lighting  now,  —  would  coldly  overrun  thee. 

The  bee  that  once  did  suck  thee, 
And  build  thy  perfumed  ambers  up  his  hive, 
And  swoon  in  thee  for  joy,  till  scarce  alive,  — 

If  passing  now,  —  would  blindly  overlook  thee. 

The  heart  doth  recognize  thee. 
Alone,  alone !     The  heart  doth  smell  thee  sweet, 
Doth  view  thee  fair,  doth  judge  thee  most  complete,  — 

Though  seeing  now  those  changes  that  disguise  thee. 

Yes,  and  the  heart  doth  owe  thee 
More  love,  dead  rose !  than  to  such  roses  bold 
As  Julia  wears  at  dances,  smiling  cold  !  — 

Lie  still  upon  this  heart,  which  breaks  below  thee ! 


SLEEP. 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar. 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is 
For  gift  or  grace  surpassing  this,  — 
"  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep  "  ? 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart,  to  be  unmoved,  — 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep,  — 
The  patriot's  voice,  to  teach  and  rouse,  — 
The  monarch's  crown,  to  light  the  brows  ? 
"  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 


MRS.    BEOWNINO.  197 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
A  little  faith,  all  undisproved,  — 
A  little  dust  to  overweep,  — 
And  bitter  memories,  to  make 
Tlie  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake  j 
"  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

**  Sleep  soft,  beloved ! "  we  sometimes  say, 

But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep ; 

But  never  doleful  dream  again 

Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 

"  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises ! 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices  ! 
O  delved  gold  the  wailers  heap ! 
O  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  "  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still. 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap ; 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
"  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

For  me,  my  heart,  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show. 
That  sees  through  tears  the  jugglers  leap. 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close. 
Would  childlike  on  His  love  repose 
Who  "  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 

LOVE:  A    SONNET. 

I  THOUGHT  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 

Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished-for  years. 

Who  each  one,  iu  a  gracious  hand,  appears 


198  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  and  young ; 

And  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 

I  saw  a  gradual  vision  through  my  tears. 

The  sweet  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years. 

Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  liad  flung 

A  shadow  across  me.     Straightway  I  was  'ware, 

So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  shape  did  move 

Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backwards  by  the  hair. 

And  a  voice  said  in  mastery,  while  1  strove, 

"Guess  now  who  holds  thee?"     "Death,"  I  said;  but  there 

The  silver  answer  rang,  —  "  Not  Death,  but  Love." 

THE  CBY  OF  THE  CHILDREN.* 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my  brothers. 

Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ? 
They  are  leaning  their  young  heads  against  their  mothers,  — 

And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 
The  young  lambs  are  bleating  in  the  meadows, 

The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the  nest, 
The  young  fawns  are  playing  with  the  shadows. 

The  young  flowers  are  blowing  towanls  the  west ; 
But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my  brothers. 

They  are  weeping  bitterly  !  — 
They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the  others. 

In  the  country  of  the  free. 

And  well  may  the  children  weep  before  you ! 

They  are  weary  ere  they  run  ; 
They  have  never  seen  the  sunshine,  nor  the  glory 

Which  is  brighter  than  the  sun  : 
They  know  the  grief  of  man,  without  his  wisdom ; 

They  sink  in  man's  despair,  without  his  calm,  — 
Are  slaves,  without  the  liberty  in  Christdom,  — 

Are  martjTS,  by  the  pang  without  the  palm,  — 
Are  worn,  as. if  with  age,  yet  unretrievingly 

The  blessings  of  its  memory  cannot  keep,  — 
Are  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and  heavenly : 

Let  them  weep !  let  them  weep ! 

*  This  extract  is  from  a  ven-  pathetic  poem  on  the  factory  children  of  England. 


AQASSIZ.  199 

AGASSIZ. 

1807- 1873. 

Locis  Jkait  Rodolphe  Agassis,  in  whose  death  the  nation  has  lost  one  of  her  most  honored 
dtizrns.  and  Science  one  of  her  ablest  representatives,  was  born  in  the  canton  of  Vaiul, 
Switxerland,  in  1807-  While  still  very  young  he  became  a  zealons  student  of  scientific  subjects, 
Mid  early  gave  promise  of  the  eminence  which  he  afterwards  attained  in  tliat  department  of 
intellectual  effort  For  several  years  he  occupied  the  chair  of  Natural  History  at  Neufch&tel, 
and  in  the  discharge  of  his  duties  and  the  prosecution  of  independent  investigations  commended 
himself  to  the  attention  and  respect  of  leading  scientisU  in  all  parts  of  Europe.  He  was  the 
intimate  and  triuted  friend  of  Cuvier,  the  great  naturalist.  He  was  urgently  invited  by  sc\  eral 
universities  of  the  highest  grade  ;  but  he  felt  a  powerful  attraction  towards  the  vigorous  young 
Republic  of  the  West,  and  when  in  1»47  there  came  a  call  to  him  from  Harvard  University,  he 
instantly  accepted  it  The  histoi7  of  his  work  in  the  twenty-five  years  of  Ids  life  in  this  country 
is  too  familiar  to  require  a  detailed  statement ;  it  is  sufficient  to  say  that  for  many  years  he  was 
esteemed  by  universal  consent  the  foremost  savant  in  the  United  Sutes  and  the  peer  of  the 
greatest  of  the  brotherhood  in  Europe.  It  should  be  added  that  the  recent  rapid  growth  of 
popolar  interest  in  science  and  the  establishment  and  gratifying  progress  of  many  scientific 
iastitations  in  this  country  are  fairly  attributable  to  his  example  and  influence.  Long  before  his 
emigration  to  America  Agassis  had  become  a  famous  author,  and  had  won  an  enviable  fame  in  con- 
nection with  the  Glacial  Theory,  which  he  promulgated  in  1837-  During  his  residence  here  he 
was  a  frequent  contributor  to  scientific  periodicals,  and  produced  several  works  of  marked  origi- 
nality and  permanent  value.  Conspicuous  among  these  are  Methods  0/ Study  in  Natural  History 
and  Geological  Sketches.  In  1965  Professor  Agassii  made  a  voyage  to  Brazil  in  the  interests  of 
■cienee.  The  labors  resulting  from  this  enterprise,  and  his  arduous  efforts  in  behalf  of  the 
Museum  of  Comparative  Zoology  at  Cambridge,  proved  too  severe  for  his  physical  strength,  and 
within  the  year  just  preceding  his  death  it  was  evident  to  Ids  friends  that  he  was  failing.  Their 
finebodings  were  too  soon  realized,  and  near  the  close  of  his  sixty-sixth  year  the  great  naturalist 
passed  away.  It  is  simple  justice  to  his  memory  to  add  that  he  was  no  less  conspicuous  and 
admirable  for  the  qualities  of  his  heart  than  for  the  powers  and  stores  of  his  mind.  The  first  ex- 
tract is  ftrom  A  Jonmey  in  Brazil,  the  joint  work  of  Professor  and  Mrs.  Agassiz ;  the  second  is 
from  Geological  Sketches. 

A  COFFEE  PLANTATION  IN  BEAZIL. 

The  Fazenda  da  Fortaleza  de  Santa  Anna  lies  at  the  foot  of  the 
Serra  da  Babylonia.  The  house  itself  forms  a  part  of  a  succession  of 
low  white  buildings,  enclosing  an  oblong  square  divided  into  neat  lots 
for  the  drying  of  coffee.  This  drying  of  the  coffee  in  the  immediate 
vicinity  of  the  house,  though  a  very  general  custom,  must  be  an  uncom- 
fortable one  ;  for  the  drying-lots  are  laid  in  a  dazzling  white  cement, 
from  the  glare  of  which,  in  this  hot  climate,  the  eye  turns  wearily  away. 

Just  l)ehind  the  house,  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  is  the  orangery.  I 
om  never  tired  of  these  golden  orchards,  and  this  was  one  of  espe- 
cial beauty.  The  small,  deep-colored  tangerines,  sometimes  twenty 
or  thirty  in  one  cluster,  the  large,  choice  orange,  "  Laranja  selecta," 
as  it  is  called,  often  ten  or  twelve  together  in  a  single  bunch,  and 


200  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

bearing  the  branches  to  the  ground  with  their  weight,  the  paler 
"  Liraao  doce,"  or  sweet  lemon,  rather  insipid,  but  greatly  esteemed 
here  for  its  cool,  refreshing  properties,  —  all  these,  with  many  others, 
make  a  mass  of  color  in  which  gold,  deep  orange,  and  pale  yellow 
blend  wonderfully  with  the  background  of  green.  Beyond  the  house 
enclosure,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  are  the  gardens,  with  aviary 
and  fish-ponds  in  the  center.  With  these  exceptions,  all  the  prop- 
erty not  forest  is  devoted  to  coffee,  covering  the  hillsides  for  miles 
around.  The  seed  is  planted  in  nurseries  especially  prepared,  where 
it  undergoes  its  first  year's  growth.  It  is  then  transplanted  to  its 
permanent  home,  and  begins  to  bear  in  about  three  years,  the  first 
crop  being  of  course  a  very  light  one.  From  that  time  forward,  un- 
der good  care  and  with  favorable  soil,  it  will  continue  to  bear,  and 
even  to  yield  two  crops  or  more  annually  for  thirty  years  in  succession. 
At  that  time  the  shrubs  and  the  soU  are  alike  exhausted,  and,  accord- 
ing to  the  custom  of  the  country,  the  fazendeiro  cuts  down  the  forest 
for  a  new  plantation,  completely  abandoning  his  old  one,  without  a 
thought  of  redeeming  or  fertilizing  the  exhausted  land. 

One  of  the  long-sighted  reforms  undertaken  by  Mr.  Lage  is  the 
manuring  of  all  the  old,  deserted  plantations  on  his  estate ;  he  has 
already  a  number  of  vigorous  young  plantations,  which  promise  to  be 
as  good  as  if  a  virgin  forest  had  been  sacrificed  to  produce  them. 
He  wishes  not  only  to  preserve  the  wood  on  his  own  estate,  and  to 
show  that  agriculture  need  not  be  promoted  at  the  expense  of  taste 
and  beauty,  but  to  remind  his  country  people  also,  that,  extensive  as 
are  the  forests,  they  will  not  last  forever,  and  that  it  will  be  necessary 
to  emigrate  before  long  to  find  new  coffee-grounds,  if  the  old  ones  are 
treated  as  worthless.  Another  of  his  reforms  is  that  of  the  roads. 
The  ordinary  roads  in  the  coffee  plantations,  like  the  mule-tracks  all 
over  the  country,  go  straight  up  the  sides  of  the  hills  between  the  lines 
of  shrubs,  and  besides  being  gullied  by  every  rain,  they  form  so  steep 
an  ascent  that  even  with  eight  or  ten  oxen  it  is  often  impossible  to 
drive  the  clumsy,  old-fashioned  carts  up  the  slope,  and  the  negroes 
are  obliged  to  bring  a  great  part  of  the  harvest  down  on  their  heads. 
On  Senhor  Lage's  estate  all  these  old  roads  are  abandoned,  except 
where  they  are  planted  here  and  there  with  alleys  of  orange-trees  for 
the  use  of  the  negroes  ;  and  he  has  substituted  for  them  winding  roads 
in  the  side  of  the  hill  with  a  very  gradual  ascent,  so  that  light  carts 
drawn  by  a  single  mide  can  transport  all  the  harvest  from  the  sum- 
mit of  the  plantation  to  the  drying-ground. 


AQASSIZ.  201 

It  was  the  harvesting  season,  and  the  spectacle  was  a  pretty  one. 
The  negroes,  men  and  women,  were  scattered  about  the  plantations 
with  broad,  shallow  trays,  made  of  plaited  grass  or  bamboo,  strapped 
over  their  shoulders  and  supported  at  their  waists  ;  into  these  they 
were  gathering  the  coflFee ;  some  of  the  berries  being  brilliantly  red, 
some  already  beginning  to  dry  and  turn  brown,  while  here  and  there 
was  a  green  one  not  yet  quite  ripe,  but  soon  to  ripen  in  the  scorching 
sun.  Little  black  children  were  sitting  on  the  ground  and  gathering 
what  fell  under  the  bushes,  singing  at  their  work  a  monotonous  but 
rather  pretty  snatch  of  song,  in  which  some  took  the  first  and  others 
the  second,  making  a  not  inharmonious  music.  As  their  baskets  were 
filled  they  came  to  the  Administrador  to  receive  a  little  metal  ticket  on 
which  the  amount  of  their  work  was  marked. 

A  task  is  allotted  to  each  one,  -r-  so  much  to  a  full-grown  man,  so 
much  to  a  woman  with  young  children,  so  much  to  a  child,  —  and  each 
one  is  paid  for  whatever  he  may  do  over  and  above  it.  The  requisi- 
tion is  a  very  moderate  one,  so  that  the  industrious  have  an  opportu- 
nity of  earning  a  little  money  independently.  At  night  they  all  pre- 
sent their  tickets  and  are  paid  on  the  spot,  for  any  extra  work.  From 
the  harvesting-ground  we  followed  the  carts  down  to  the  place  where 
their  burden  is  deposited.  On  their  return  from  the  plantation  the 
negroes  divide  the  day's  harvest,  and  dispose  it  in  little  mounds  on 
the  drying-ground.  When  pretty  equally  dried,  the  coffee  is  spread 
out  in  thin  even  layers  over  the  whole  enclosure,  where  it  is  baked  for 
the  last  time.  It  is  then  hulled  by  a  very  simple  machine  in  use  on 
almost  all  the  fazendas,  and  the  process  is  complete. 

Yestenlay  we  succeeded  in  obtaining  living  specimens  of  the  in- 
sect so  injurious  to  the  coffee-tree,  the  larva  of  a  little  moth  akin  to 
those  which  destroy  the  vineyards  in  Europe,  and  among  them  was 
one  just  spinning  his  cocoon  on  the  leaf.  We  watched  him  for  a  long 
time  with  the  lens  as  he  wove  his  filmy  tent.  He  had  arehed  the 
threads  upwards  in  the  center,  so  as  to  leave  a  little  hollow  space 
into  whieh  he  could  withdraw ;  this  tiny  vault  seemed  to  be  com- 
pleted ot  the  moment  we  saw  him,  and  he  was  drawing  threads  for- 
ward and  fastening  them  at  a  short  distance  beyond,  thus  lashing  his 
house  to  the  leaf,  as  it  were.  The  exquisite  accuracy  of  the  work  was 
amazing.  He  was  spinning  the  thread  with  his  mouth,  and  with  every 
new  stitch  he  turned  his  body  backward,  attached  his  thread  to  the  same 
spot,  then  drew  it  forward  and  fastened  it  exactly  on  a  line  with  the 
last,  with  a  pre^^ision  and  rapidity  that  machinery  could  hardly  imitate. 


202  CATHCARTS    LITERARY    READER. 

It  is  a  curious  question  how  far  this  perfection  of  workmanship  in 
many  of  the  lower  animals  is  simply  identical  with  their  organization, 
and  therefore  to  be  considered  a  function,  as  inevitable  in  its  action 
as  digestion  or  respiration,  rather  than  an  instinct.  In  this  case  the 
body  of  the  little  animal  was  his  measure :  it  was  amazing  to  see  him 
lay  down  his  threads  with  such  accuracy,  till  one  remembered  that  he 
could  not  make  them  longer  or  shorter  ;  for,  starting  from  the  center 
of  his  house,  and  stretching  his  body  its  full  length,  they  must  always 
reach  the  same  point.  The  same  is  true  of  the  so-called  mathematics 
of  the  bee.  The  bees  stand  as  close  as  they  can  together  in  their  hive 
for  economy  of  space,  and  each  one  deposits  his  wax  around  him, 
his  own  form  and  size  being  the  mould  for  the  cells,  the  regularity  of 
which  when  completed  excites  so  much  wonder  and  admiration.  The 
mathematical  secret  of  the  bee  is  to  be  found  in  his  structure,  not  in 
his  instinct.  But  in  the  industrial  work  of  some  of  the  lower  ani- 
mals, the  ant  for  instance,  there  is  a  power  of  adaptation  which  is  not 
susceptible  of  the  same  expkination.  Their  social  organization,  too 
intelligent,  it  seems,  to  be  the  work  of  any  reasoning  powers  of  their 
own,  yet  does  not  appear  to  be  directly  connected  with  their  struc- 
ture. While  we  were  watching  our  little  insect,  a  breath  stirred  the 
leaf  and  he  instantly  contracted  himself  and  drew  back  under  his 
roof,  but  presently  came  out  again  and  returned  to  his  work. 

AMERICA  THE  OLD  WOBLD. 

PiRST-BOBN  among  the  Continents,  though  so  much  later  in  cul- 
ture and  civilization  than  some  of  more  recent  birth,  America,  so  far 
as  her  physical  history  is  concerned,  has  been  falsely  denominated  the 
JV«r  JForld.  Hers  was  the  first  dry  land  lifted  out  of  the  waters, 
hers  the  first  shore  washed  by  the  ocean  that  enveloped  all  the  earth 
beside ;  and  while  Europe  was  represented  only  by  islands  rising 
here  and  there  al)0ve  the  sea,  America  already  stretched  an  unbroken 
line  of  land  from  Nova  Scotia  to  the  Far  West.* 

In  the  present  state  of  our  knowledge,  our  conclusions  respecting 
the  beginning  of  the  earth's  historj*,  the  way  in  which  it  took  form 
and  shape  as  a  distinct,  separate  planet,  must,  of  course,  be  very 

*  "  It  would  be  inexpedient  to  encumber  this  essay,"  Mr.  Agassii  remarks,  "  with  references 
to  all  the  authorities  on  which  such  geological  results  rest.  They  are  drawn  from  the  various 
State  Surrrys,  including  that  of  the  mineral  lands  of  Lake  Superior,  in  which  the  early  rise  of  the 
American  Continent  is  for  the  first  time  affirmed,  and  other  more  general  works  on  American 
geology." 


AGASSIZ.  203 

vague  and  hypothetical.  Yet  the  progress  of  science  is  so  rapidly 
reconstructing  the  past  that  we  may  hope  to  solve  even  this  problem  ; 
and  to  one  who  looks  upon  man's  appearance  upon  the  earth  as  the 
crowning  work  in  a  succession  of  creative  acts,  all  of  which  have  had 
rebtion  to  his  coming  in  the  end,  it  will  not  seem  strange  that  he 
should  at  last  be  allowed  to  understand  a  history  which  was  but  the 
introduction  to  his  own  existence.  It  is  my  belief  that  not  only  the 
future,  but  the  past  also,  is  the  inheritance  of  man,  and  that  we  shall 
yet  conquer  our  lost  birthright. 

Even  now  our  knowledge  carries  us  far  enough  to  warrant  the 
assertion  that  there  was  a  time  when  our  earth  was  in  a  state  of 
igneous  fusion,  when  no  ocean  bathed  it  and  no  atmosphere  surrounded 
it,  when  no  wind  blew  over  it,  and  no  rain  fell  upon  it,  but  an  intense 
heat  held  all  its  materials  in  solution.  In  those  days  the  rocks  which 
are  now  the  very  bones  and  sinews  of  our  mother  Earth  —  her 
granites,  her  porphyries,  her  basalts,  her  sienitcs  —  were  melted  into 
a  liquid  mass.  As  I  am  writing  for  the  unscientific  reader,  who  may 
not  be  familiar  with  the  facts  through  which  these  inferences  have 
been  reached,  I  will  answer  here  a  question  which,  were  we  talking 
together,  he  might  naturally  ask  in  a  somewhat  skeptical  tone.  How 
do  you  know  that  this  state  of  things  ever  existed,  and,  supposing 
that  the  solid  materials  of  which  our  earth  consists  were  ever  in  a 
liquid  condition,  what  right  have  you  to  infer  that  this  condition  was 
caused  by  the  action  of  heat  upon  them  ?  I  answer.  Because  it  is 
acting  upon  them  still ;  because  the  earth  we  tread  is  but  a  thin  cnist 
floating  on  a  liquid  sea  of  molten  materials  ;  because  the  agencies 
that  were  at  work  then  are  at  work  now,  and  the  present  is  the  logical 
sequence  of  the  past.  From  Artesian  wells,  from  mines,  from  geysers, 
from  hot  springs,  a  mass  of  facts  has  been  collected,  proving  incon- 
testably  the  heated  condition  of  all  substances  at  a  certain  depth 
below  the  earth's  surface ;  and  if  we  need  more  positive  evidence,  we 
have  it  in  the  fiery  eruptions  that  even  now  liear  fearful  testimony  to 
the  molten  ocean  seething  within  the  globe  and  forcing  its  way  out 
from  time  to  time.  The  modern  progress  of  Geology  has  led  us  by 
successive  and  perfectly  connected  steps  l)ack  to  a  time  when  what  is 
now  only  an  occasional  and  rare  phenomenon  was  the  normal  condi- 
tion of  our  earth ;  when  those  internal  fires  were  inclosed  in  an 
envelop  so  thin  that  it  opposed  but  little  resistance  to  their  frequent 
outbreak,  and  they  constantly  forced  themselves  through  this  crust, 


E04  CATH cart's  literary  reader. 

pouring  out  uulted  materials  that  subsequently  cooled  and  consoli- 
dated on  its  surface.  So  constant  were  these  eruptions,  and  so  slight 
was  the  resistance  they  encouutered,  that  some  portions  of  the  earlier 
rock-deposits  are  perforated  with  numerous  chimneys,  narrow  tunnels 
as  it  were,  bored  by  the  liquid  masses  that  poured  out  through  them 
and  greatly  modified  their  first  condition. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  part  of  the  world,  certainly  none  familiar  to 
science,  where  the  early  geological  periods  can  be  studied  with  so 
much  ease  and  precision  as  in  the  United  States.  Along  their  north- 
em  borders,  between  Canada  and  the  United  States,  there  runs  the 
low  line  of  hills  known  as  the  Laurentian  Hills.  Insignificant  in 
height,  nowhere  rising  more  than  fifteen  hundred  or  two  thousand 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  these  are  nevertheless  the  first  moun- 
tains that  broke  the  uniform  level  of  the  earth's  surface,  and  lifted 
themselves  above  the  waters.  Their  low  stature,  as  compared  with 
that  of  other  more  lofty  mountain-ranges,  is  in  accordance  with  an 
invariable  rule,  by  which  the  relative  age  of  mountains  may  be  esti- 
mated. The  oldest  mountains  are  the  lowest,  while  the  younger  and 
more  recent  ones  tower  &\xnr  iluii  riders,  and  are  usiudly  more  torn 
and  dislocated  also.  This  is  easily  understood  when  we  remember 
that  all  mountains  and  mountain-chains  arc  the  result  of  upheavals, 
and  that  the  violence  of  the  outbreak  must  have  been  in  proportion  to 
the  strength  of  the  resistance.  When  the  crust  of  the  earth  was  so 
thin  that  the  heated  masses  within  easily  broke  through  it,  they  were 
not  thrown  to  so  great  a  height,  and  formed  comparatively  low  eleva- 
tions, such  as  the  Canadian  hills  or  the  mountains  of  Bretagne  and 
Wales.  But  in  later  times,  when  young,  vigorous  giants,  such  as  the 
Alps,  the  Himalayas,  or,  later  still,  the  Kocky  Mountains,  forced  their 
way  out  from  their  fiery  prison-house,  the  crust  of  the  earth  was 
much  thicker,  and  fearful  indeed  must  have  been  the  convulsions 
which  attended  their  exit. 

The  Laurentian  Hills  form,  then,  a  granite  range,  stretching  from 
Eastern  Canada  to  the  Upper  Mississippi,  and  immediately  along  its 
base  are  gathered  the  Azoic  deposits,  the  first  stratified  beds,  in  which 
the  absence  of  life  need  not  surprise  us,  since  they  were  formed  be- 
neath a  heated  ocean.  As  well  might  w^e  expect  to  find  the  remains 
of  fish  or  shells  or  crabs  at  the  bottom  of  geysers  or  of  boiling  springs, 
as  on  those  early  shores  bathed  by  an  ocean  of  which  the  heat  must 
have  been  so  intense.     Although  from  the  condition  in  which  we  find 


AGASSIZ.  205 

it,  this  first  granite  range  has  evidently  never  been  disturbed  by  any 
violent  convulsion  since  its  first  upheaval,  yet  there  has  been  a  gradual 
rising  of  that  part  of  the  continent,  for  the  Azoic  beds  do  not  lie 
horizontally  along  the  base  of  the  Laureutian  Hills  in  the  position  in 
which  they  must  originally  have  been  deposited,  but  are  lifted  and 
rest  against  their  slopes.  They  have  been  more  or  less  dislocated  in 
this  process,  and  are  greatly  metamorphosed  by  the  intense  heat  to 
which  they  must  have  been  exposed.  Indeed,  all  the  oldest  stratified 
rocks  have  been  baked  by  the  prolonged  action  of  heat. 

It  may  be  asked  how  the  materials  for  those  first  stratified  deposits 
were  provided.  In  later  times,  when  an  abundant  and  various  soil 
covered  the  earth,  when  every  river  brought  down  to  the  ocean,  not 
only  its  yearly  tribute  of  mud  or  clay  or  lime,  but  the  debria  of  ani- 
mals and  pknts  that  lived  and  died  in  its  waters  or  along  its  banks, 
when  every  lake  and  pond  deposited  at  its  bottom  in  successive  layera 
the  lighter  or  heavier  materials  floating  in  its  waters  and  settling  grad- 
ually beneath  them,  the  process  by  which  stratified  materials  are  col- 
lected and  gradually  harden  into  rock  is  more  easily  understood.  But 
when  the  solid  surface  of  the  earth  was  oiUy  just  beginning  to  form,  it 
would  seem  that  the  floating  matter  in  the  sea  can  hardly  have  been 
in  sufficient  quantity  to  form  any  extensive  deposits.  No  doubt 
there  was  some  abrasion  even  of  that  first  crust ;  but  the  more  abun- 
dant source  of  the  earliest  stratification  is  to  be  found  in  the  submarine 
volcanoes  that  poured  their  liquid  streams  into  the  first  ocean.  At 
what  rate  these  materials  would  be  distributed  and  precipitated  in 
regular  strata  it  is  impossible  to  determine ;  but  that  volcanic  mate- 
rials were  so  deposited  in  layers  is  evident  from  the  relative  position 
of  the  earliest  rocks.  I  have  already  spoken  of  the  innumerable  chim- 
neys perforating  the  Azoic  Vds,  narrow  outlets  of  Plutonic  rock,  pro- 
truding through  the  earliest  strata.  Not  only  are  such  funnels  filled 
with  the  crystalline  mass  of  granite  that  flowed  through  them  in  a 
liquid  state,  but  it  has  often  poured  over  their  sides,  mingling  with 
the  stratified  beds  around.  In  the  present  state  of  our  knowledge,  we 
can  explain  snoh  appearances  only  by  supposing  that  the  heated  mate- 
rials within  the  earth's  crust  poun*d  o\it  fnquently,  meeting  little 
resistance,  —  that  tliey  then  scattered  and  were  precipitated  in  the 
ocean  around,  settling  in  successive  strata  at  its  bottom,  —  that 
through  such  strata  the  heated  masses  within  continued  to  pour  agjiin 
and  again,  forming  for  themselves  the  chimney-like  outlets  above 
mentioned. 


206  CATHCART^S    LITERAEY    READER. 

Such,  then,  was  the  earliest  American  land,  —  a  long,  narrow  island, 
almost  continental  in  its  proportions,  since  it  stretched  from  the 
eastern  borders  of  Canada  nearly  to  the  point  where  now  the  base  of 
the  Eocky  Mountains  meets  the  phiin  of  the  Mississippi  Valley.  We 
may  still  walk  along  its  ridge  and  know  that  we  tread  upon  the 
ancient  granite  that  first  divided  the  waters  into  a  northorn  and  south- 
ern ocean ;  and  if  our  imaginations  will  airrj'  us  so  far,  we  may  look 
down  toward  its  base  and  fancy  how  the  sea  washed  against  this 
earliest  shore  of  a  lifeless  world.  This  is  no  romance,  but  the  bald, 
simple  truth;  for  the  fact  that  this  granite  band  was  lifted  out  of 
the  waters  so  early  in  the  history  of  the  world,  and  has  not  since  been 
submerged,  has,  of  course,  prevented  any  subsequent  deposits  from 
forming  above  it.  And  this  is  true  of  all  the  northern  part  of  the 
United  States.  It  lias  been  lifted  gradually,  the  beds  deposited  in 
one  pttriod  being  subsequently  raised,  and  forming  a  shore  along 
which  those  of  the  succeeding  one  collected,  so  that  we  have  their 
whole  sequence  before  us.  In  regions  where  all  the  geological  de- 
posits, Silurian,  Devonian,  Carboniferous,  Permian,  Triassic,  etc.,  are 
piled  one  upon  another,  and  we  can  get  a  glimpse  of  their  internal 
relations  only  where  some  rent  has  laid  them  open,  or  where  their 
ragged  edges,  worn  away  by  the  abrading  action  of  external  influences, 
expose  to  view  their  successive  layers,  it  must,  of  course,  be  more 
difficult  to  follow  their  connection.  For  this  reason  the  American 
continent  offers  facilities  to  the  geologist  denied  to  him  in  the  so-called 
Old  World,  where  the  earlier  deposits  are  comparatively  hidden,  and 
tlie  broken  character  of  the  land,  intersected  by  mountains  in  every  di- 
rection, renders  his  investigation  still  more  difficult.  Of  course,  when 
I  speak  of  the  geological  deposits  as  so  completely  unveiled  to  us 
here,  I  do  not  forget  the  sheet  of  drift  which  covers  the  continent  from 
north  to  south ;  but  the  drift  is  only  a  superficial  and  recent  addition 
to  the  soil,  resting  loosely  above  the  other  geological  deposits,  and 
arising  from  very  different  causes. 

In  this  article  I  have  intended  to  limit  myself  to  a  general  sketch 
of  the  formation  of  the  Laurentian  Hills  with  the  Azoic  stratified  beds 
resting  against  them.  In  the  Silurian  epoch  following  the  Azoic  we 
have  the  first  beach  on  which  any  life  stirred ;  it  extended  along  the 
base  of  the  Azoic  beds,  widening  by  its  extensive  deposits  the  narrow 
strip  of  land  already  upheaved. 


LONCKKI.LOW.  207 

LONGFELLOW. 

1807- 

IlKintT  Wadswoxth  Lo!ianLLOW,  the  most  distinguished  of  American  poets,  was  born  in 
Portland.  Maine,  in  18(»7.  He  graduated  at  Bowdoin  Ck>llege  in  the  class  of  1825,  of  which  Na- 
thaniel Hawthorne  an  J  President  Pierce  were  mciiihers.  The  next  year  he  was  appointed  Professor 
of  Modem  Languages  in  this  institution,  and  in  18.55  was  elected  to  the  chair  of  Belles-Lettres 
in  Harrard  University,  which  position  he  held  for  many  years,  finally  resigning  it  in  order  that  he 
might  give  his  attention  wholly  to  literary  labor.  Between  th«se  two  dates  he  spent  much  time 
in  Europe,  assiduously  studying  modem  languages  and  literature.  Mr.  Longfellow's  poetry  is 
distinguished  for  rctinemcnt  and  grace  rather  than  for  vigor  of  thought  or  expression.  His  sym- 
pathies are  quick  and  strong,  and  this  fact,  together  with  the  directness  and  simplicity  of  his  verse, 
accounts  mainly  for  the  extraordinary  popularity  of  his  writings,  not  only  in  this  country,  but  in 
England,  where  they  are  almost  universally  read  and  admired.  Perhaps  his  best  —  as  it  is  his 
most  famous  —  poem  is  EraH^feliHe,  which  contains  some  of  the  most  perfect  idyllic  passages  in  the 
language,  and  is  eloquent  with  a  sweet  pathos  that  touches  every  heart.  He  is  an  accomplished 
student  of  foreign  literature,  and  has  translated  many  poems  from  the  Spanish,  German,  and 
Scandinatian  langtiages  into  his  own  graceful  measures.  He  may  fairly  be  regarded  as  one  of 
the  most  influential  founders  of  American  literature,  as  he  is  one  of  its  brightest  ornaments.  Aa 
•  TcpreaeDtatiTe  of  our  national  culture  in  European  eyes,  he  is  undoubtedly  the  most  oonspicu- 
ow  of  American  poeta. 

THE  WBECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS. 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus 

Th:it  sailed  the  wintry  sea  ; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy -flax, 

Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 
And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds 

That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  west,  now  south. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  sailor, 

Had  sailed  the  Spanish  Main, 
"  I  pray  thee  put  into  yonder  port, 

For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 


208  cathcart's  literaey  reader. 

"  Last  night  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see !  " 

The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whifF  from  his  pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  northeast ; 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted  steed. 

Then  leiiped  her  cable's  length. 

"  Come  liitlier  !  come  hither !  my  little  daughter. 

And  do  not  tremble  so ; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar. 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

**  O  father  !  I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

O  say  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
"  'T  is  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast !  " 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

"  O  father !  I  hear  the  ^ound  of  guns, 

O  say  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
*'  Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea !  " 

"  O  father !  I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

O  say  what  may  it  be  ?  " 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word,  — 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 


LONGFELLOW.  209 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiflF  and  stark. 

With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies. 
The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 

On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 

That  savdd  she  might  be ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear. 

Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow. 
Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 

Towards  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land ; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf. 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool. 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice. 

With  the  masts  went  by  the  board  ; 
Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 

Ho  !  ho  !  the  breakers  roared  ! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast. 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair 

La«hed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 


210  catiicart's  literary  readee. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast. 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weecl. 

On  tlic  l)ill()\vs  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  tho  inidniirht  and  the  snow  ! 
Christ  s;ivi'  us  all  IVoMi  a  dcatli  like  this. 
On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe ! 

THE  SHIP  OF  STATE. 

Thou  too  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State  ! 
Sail  on,  O  Union,  stronor  and  great  I . 
Humanity,  with  all  its  fears. 
With  all  tiif  !ioj)c>i  of  future  years. 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  f 
We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
*  What  Workmen  wrou  jilt  t  liy  ribs  of  steel, 

W  ho  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat. 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 
W(TO  shapes!  tlie  anchors  of  thy  hope  ! 
l'\ar  not  each  suddtu  sound  and  shock, 
T  is  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock ; 
*T  is  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail. 
And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale  ! 
In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar. 
In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore. 
Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea ! 
Our  hearts,  onr  hopes,  are  all  with  thee ; 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  onr  tears, 
Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
Are  all  with  thee,  —  are  all  with  thee ! 

A  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
"  Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  !  " 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers. 
And  things  are  not  what' they  seem. 


LONGFELLOW.  211 

Life  is  real !  life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  j^ve  is  not  its  goal ; 
"  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest," 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave. 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 

We  can  make  our  lives  suljime. 
And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 

Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another. 

Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 
A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Le&m  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


212  cathcart's  liteeart.  reader. 


THE  LAUHCHING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


All  is  finished  !  and  at  length 

Has  come  the  bridal  day 

Of  beauty  and  of  strength. 

To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched  ! 

With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched, 

And  o'er  the  bay, 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  dight, 

The  great  Sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 

The  Ocean  old, 

Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled, 

Paces  restless  to  and  fro, 

Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 

His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest ; 

And  far  and  wide. 

With  ceaseless  flow, 

His  beard  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 

He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 

There  she  stands. 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands. 

Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay, 

In  honor  of  her  marriage  day, 

Her  snow-white  signals,  fluttering,  blending, 

Round  her  like  a  veil  descending. 

Ready  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  gray  old  Sea. 


Then  the  master, 

With  a  gesture  of  command. 

Waved  his  hand ; 

And  at  the  word, 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heeird, 

All  around  them  and  below. 


LONGFELLOW.  213 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow. 

Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 

A.nd  see !  she  stirs ! 

She  starts,  —  she  moves,  —  she  seems  to  feel 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel, 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground. 

With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 

She  leaps  into  the  Ocean's  arms  ! 

DISASTER. 

Nevee  stoops  the  soaring  vulture 
On  his  quarry  in  the  desert, 
On  the  sick  or  wounded  bison, 
But  another  vulture,  watching 
From  his  high  aerial  lookout, 
Sees  the  downward  plunge,  and  follows ; 
And  a  third  pursues  the  second, 
Coming  from  the  invisible  ether, 
First  a  speck,  and  then  a  vulture. 
Till  the  air  is  dark  with  pinions. 
So  disasters  come  not  singly  ; 
But  as  if  they  watched  and  waited, 
Scanning  one  another's  motions, 
When  the  first  descends,  the  others 
Follow,  follow,  gathering  flock-wise 
Round  their  victim,  sick  and  wounded, 
First  a  shadow,  then  a  sorrow. 
Till  the  air  is  dark  with  anguish. 


Though  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly, 
Yet  they  grind  exceeding  small ; 

Though  with  patience  he  stands  waiting, 
With  exactness  grinds  he  all. 


iil4  CATHCiLRT^S    LITERARY    READER. 

WHITTIER. 

1808- 

JoHN  GuccxLEAF  WnriTRB,  the  Quaker  poet,  was  born  in  Haverhill.  Massachiuetts,  in 
1808.  His  youth  was  spent  on  the  paternal  farm,  and  his  educational  opportunities  were  not 
first-rate.  He  poMesaed  a  keen  appetite  for  knowledge,  however,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-one 
had  so  enriched  and  disciplined  his  mind  that  he  was  thought  competent  to  till  the  editorial 
chair  of  a  Boston  piqwr.  One  year  later  he  went  to  Hartford,  where  he  edited  the  New  England 
Weekly.  In  1B31  he  returned  to  Haverhill,  where  he  remained  five  years,  engaged  in  agriculture, 
and  serving  the  State  as  Representative  in  the  LfCgislature  through  two  terms.  From  boyhood 
he  luui  been  deeply  interested  in  the  subject  of  slavery,  and  his  convictions  of  the  sinfulness  of 
that  institution  were  strengthened  with  his  growth.  He  was  one  of  the  original  members  of  the 
American  Antislavery  Society,  and  having  been  appointed  one  of  its  secretaries,  he  took  up  his 
residence  at  Philadelphia  in  \v^i6,  and  for  four  years  wrote  coiutantly  for  antislavery  periodicals. 
In  1840  he  established  himself  at  Amesbury,  Massachusetts,  which  has  ever  since  been  his  home. 
His  first  volume,  Legend*  of  New  Englmmd  in  Pro$e  mnd  Veru,  was  published  in  1831.  This  has 
been  followed  at  frequent  intervals  by  nearly  thirty  volumes,  mostly  of  verse.  During  the  late 
war  he  poured  forth  a  multitude  of  strong  and  stirring  lyrics  which  helped  not  a  little  to  sustain 
and  energize  public  sentiment ;  and  the  literature  of  the  antislavery  struggle,  from  its  beginning 
to  its  end,  had  in  him  an  active  and  cffieieat  c<Mitributor.  Mr.  Whittier's  earlier  poems  deal 
largely  with  the  colonial  annals  of  New  England,  and  some  of  the  most  interesting  traditions  of 
that  region  have  been  preserved  for  remote  posterity  in  his  graphic  and  rigorous  lines.  Two  of 
Mr.  Whittier's  poems  have  enjoyed  an  exceptional  popularity,  Mmud  MtdUr  and  Snow-Bound ;  the 
first,  telling  the  story  of  a  universal  experience,  appeals  to  every  heart,  while  the  second  affords 
the  most  faithful  and  finished  pictures  of  winter  life  in  rural  New  England  that  have  ever 
been  drawn  by  a  poet  No  American  poet,  it  may  be  said,  is  so  free  as  Mr.  Whittier  from  obli- 
gations to  English  writers ;  his  poems  show  no  evidence  of  appropriation,  or  even  of  a  study  of 
masterpieces  so  assiduous  and  appreciative  as  almost  ine%itably  to  entail  a  general  resemblance. 
He  is  eminently  original,  and  eminently  American.  One  principal  charm  of  his  poetry  consists 
in  its  catholicity ;  he  sings  not  of  himself,  but  for  humanity,  and  his  voice  is  heeded  as  if  it  bore 
a  special  call  to  all  who  heard  it  The  moral  tone  of  his  writings  is  uncompromisingly  high  ; 
his  highest  inspiration  is  found  in  the  thought  of  elevating  or  helping  his  fellow-man,  or  widen- 
ing the  bounds  of  his  freedom.  The  sentiment  of  Mr.  Whittier's  verse  is  generally  elevated,  and 
is  expressed  with  mingled  tenderness  and  dignity.  His  style  lacks  el^ance,  and  is  sometimes 
marred  by  positive  faults ;  but  these  are  more  than  balanced  by  the  vigor  of  his  lyrics  and  the 
intensity  of  his  didactic  passages. 

KATTD  XIILLEB. 

Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Baked  the  meadow  sweet  A^-ith  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  nistic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  raeiry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But,  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
Wliite  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 


WHITTIER.  215 

The  sweet  song  (lied,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast,  — 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane. 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid. 

And  ask  a  draupjht  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadows  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  stream  bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup. 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

"  Thanks !  "  said  the  Judge,  "  a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass,  and  flowers,  and  trees. 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees  ; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown. 
And  her  gracefid  ankles  bare  and  brown ; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Mullcr  looked  and  sighed :  "  Ah,  me ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be ! 

"  He  woidd  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 


216 


"  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat ; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"  I  *d  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 

"  And  I  *d  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor. 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climlK'd  the  hill. 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

"  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

•*  And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air. 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay  : 

"  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters,  proud  and  cold. 
And  his  mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
Wlien  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love-tune ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well. 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow. 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go  : 


WHITTIER.  217 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms. 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover  blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret  pain, 
"  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again ! 

**  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 

"Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth  pain. 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot. 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall. 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein  : 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned. 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug. 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty,  and  love  was  law. 
10 


218  CATHCAKT^S   LTTERAEY    READEE. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again. 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been !  " 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge  ! 

God  pity  them  both !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these :  "  It  might  have  been  !  " 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies, 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Boll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away ! 

THE  BABEFOOT  BOT. 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man. 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan ! 
With  thy  tumed-up  pantaloons. 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face. 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace ; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy,  — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy  ! 
Prince  thou  art,  —  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-doUared  ride  ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye,  — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy  ; 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  ! 

O  for  boyhood's  painless  play. 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day. 


WHITTlEll.  219 


Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  inoriiiiig  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place. 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood  ; 
How  the  tortoise  l>ears  his  shell. 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well ; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung  ; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine ; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way. 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay. 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans !  — 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks. 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks. 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks. 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

O  for  boyhood's  time  of  Jime, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon. 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played. 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade ; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberrj*  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  tiiirht, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 


£20  cathcaet's  literary  reader. 

Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees. 
Apples  of  Hesperides  ! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew. 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too  ; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy. 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

O  for  festal  dainties  spread. 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread,  — 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent. 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold. 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs*  orchestra ; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir. 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch  :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can  ! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew ; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat : 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 


WHITTIER.  221 


Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground  ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ! 

WIHTEB. 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without, 
We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about. 
Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 
In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 
While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 
The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat ; 
And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 
Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed. 
The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed. 
The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread. 
Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 
The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 
A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall ; 
And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 
Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet, 
The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 
The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 
And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood. 


222  cathcaet's  literaby  readee. 

MERIVALE. 

1808- 1875. 

Kit.  CnA«US  Muutale,  Dean  of  Ely,  and  a  distingaished  historian,  was  bom  in  England 
in  1806,  Mid  died  in  187S.  His  History  of  Rome  under  the  Emperors  is  a  srholarly,  calm,  and 
unprejadiccd  representation  of  the  period  of  Roman  history  which  lies  between  the  establish- 
ment of  the  first  Triumvirate  and  the  last  of  the  Caesars.  This  work  is  written  with  great  care, 
and  exhibits  marked  opulence  of  scholarship  and  thorough  ct)n)prehension  of  the  subject  The 
•nthor  was  a  profound  rather  than  brilliant  historian,  and  is  especially  to  be  praised  for  his 
accuracy  and  faUncss.    The  extracts  are  fnun  hia  History  above  named. 

AXrOlTSTUS  CJESAB.* 

In  stature  Auj^stus  hardly  exceeded  the  middle  heiprht,  but  his 
person  was  lightly  and  delicately  formed,  and  its  proportions  were 
such  as  to  convey  a  favorable  and  even  a  striking  impression.  His 
countenance  was  pale,  and  testified  to  the  weakness  of  his  health,  and 
almost  constant  bodily  suffering ;  but  the  hardships  of  military  service 
had  imparted  a  swarthy  tinge  to  a  complexion  naturally  fair,  .i!i<l  his 
eyebrows  meeting  over  a  sharp  and  aquiline  nose  gave  a  serious  and 
stern  expression  to  his  countenance.  His  hair  was  light,  and  his  eyes 
blue  and  piercing ;  he  was  well  plejised  if  any  one  on  approaching 
him  looked  on  the  ground  and  affected  to  be  unable  to  meet  their 
dazzling  brightness.  It  was  said  that  his  dress  concealed  many  im- 
perfections and  blemishes  on  his  person ;  but  he  could  not  disguise 
all  the  infirmities  under  which  he  labored  ;  the  weakness  of  the  fore- 
finger of  his  right  hand  and  a  lameness  in  the  left  hip  were  the  results 
of  wounds  he  incurred  in  a  battle  ^vith  the  lapydae  in  early  life ;  he 
suffered  repeated  attacks  of  fever  of  t^e  most  serious  kind,  especially 
in  the  course  of  the  campaign  of  Philippi  and  that  against  the  Canta- 
brians,  and  again  two  years  afterward  at  Rome,  when  his  recovery 
was  despaired  of.  From  that  time,  although  constantly  liable  to  be 
affected  by  cold  and  heat,  and  obliged  to  nurse  himself  throughout  with 
the  care  of  a  valetudinarian,  he  does  not  appear  to  have  had  any  return 
of  illness  so  serious  as  the  preceding ;  and  dying  at  the  age  of  seventy- 

*  Augustus  C  jisar,  one  of  the  Emperors  of  Rome  and  the  heir  of  Julius  Csesar,  the  greatest 
of  warriors  and  rulers,  was  bom  63  b.  c.  He  was  a  liberal  patron  of  literature  and  art,  and  his 
reign  was  so  illustrious  that  it  is  called  the  Augustan  Age.  He  was  the  friend  of  Virgil  and 
Horace,  the  most  eminent  of  the  Roman  poets,  and  so  increased  the  architectural  splendor  of 
Rome  as  to  be  able  to  boast  that  he  had  transformed  it  from  a  city  of  brick  to  a  city  of  marble. 
iSce  FlularcVs  Ufe  of  Marcus  AtUotiius.) 


MERIVALE.  228 

four,  the  rumor  obtained  popular  currency  that  he  was  prematurely  cut 
off  by  poison  administered  by  the  empress.  As  the  natural  consequence 
of  this  bodily  weakness  and  sickly  constitution,  Augustus  did  not  at- 
tempt to  distinguish  himself  by  active  exertions  or  feats  of  personal 
prowess. 

The  splendid  examples  of  his  uncle  the  dictator,  and  of  Antonius 
his  rival,  might  have  early  discouraged  him  from  attempting  to  sliine 
as  a  warrior  and  hero  :  he  had  not  the  vivacity  and  animal  spirits 
necessary  to  carry  him  through  such  exploits  as  theirs ;  and,  although 
he  did  not  shrink  from  exposing  himself  to  personal  danger,  he 
prudently  declined  to  allow  a  comparison  to  be  instituted  between 
himself  and  rivals  whom  he  could  not  hope  to  equal.  Thus  neces- 
sarily thrown  back  upon  other  resources,  he  trusted  to  caution  and  cir- 
cumspection, first  to  preserve  his  own  life,  and  afterwards  to  obtain 
the  splendid  prizes  which  had  hitherto  been  carried  off  by  daring  ad- 
venture, and  the  good  fortune  which  is  so  often  its  attendant.  From 
his  youth  upwards  accustomed  to  overreach,  not  the  bold  and  reckless 
only,  but  the  most  considerate  and  wily  of  his  contemporaries,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  the  end  in  deluding  the  senate  and  people  of  Rome  in  the 
establishment  of  his  tyranny  ;  and  finally  deceived  the  expectations  of 
the  world,  and  falsified  the  lessons  of  the  Republican  history,  reigning 
himself  forty  years  in  disguise,  and  leaving  a  throne  to  be  claimed 
without  a  challenge  by  his  successors  for  fourteen  centuries. 

But  although  emperor  in  name,  and  in  fact  absolute  master  of  his 
people,  the  manners  of  the  Caesar,  both  in  public  and  private  life, 
were  still  those  of  a  simple  citizen.  Oa  the  most  solemn  occasions 
he  was  distinguished  by  no  other  dress  than  the  robes  and  insignia  of 
the  offices  which  he  exercised  ;  he  was  attended  by  no  other  guards 
than  those  which  his  consular  dignity  rendered  customary  and  decent. 
In  his  court  there  was  none  of  the  etiquette  of  modern  monarchies  to 
be  recognized,  and  it  was  only  by  slow  and  gradual  encroachment 
that  it  came  to  prevail  in  that  of  his  successors.  Many  anecdotes  are 
recorde<l  of  the  moderation  with  which  the  emperor  received  the  oppo- 
sition, and  often  the  rebukes,  of  individuals  in  public  as  well  as  in 
private.  Tliese  stories  are  not  without  their  importance  as  showing 
how  little  formality  there  was  in  the  tone  of  addressing  the  master  of 
the  Roman  world,  and  how  ejitirely  different  the  ideas  of  the  nation 
were,  with  regard  to  the  position  occupied  by  the  Caesar  and  his 
family,  from  those  with  which  modem  associations  have  imbued  us. 


2:J4  cathcart's  mtkimhy  hkvder. 

We  have  already  noticed  the  rude  freedom  ^vitli  ^vllil  h  ribi  liu-  was 
attacked,  Jiltliough  step-son  of  the  oinpcror.  and  purlicipalinii  in  tlu- 
fniint-iit  fnnctions  of  the  tribiinitian  jxtucr.  by  a  declaimcr  in  tin- 
schools  at  Rhodes;  but  Aujxn-tu>  hini-^clt"  xiins  to  have  suffered  al- 
most as  mueh  a:3  any  private  titi/.m  tiom  the  {ijenerdl  coarseness  of 
behavior  which  cliaracterizt  i!  tlu  Itonians  in  their  public  assemblies, 
and  the  rchnkes  to  wliieh  he  patiently  submitted  were  frequently  such 
as  wtndd  lay  the  courtier  ol"  a  constitutional  sovereign  in  modern 
Europe  under  perpetual  di-urm'. 

On  one  occasion,  for  in-tancc,  in  the  public  discharge  of  his  func- 
tions as  coiTcctor  of  mannn  >,  he  had  brought  a  specific  charge  ngainst 
a  certain  knight  for  havini,^  Mjuandered  his  patrimony.  The  aet-nscd 
proved  that  he  had,  on  the  contniry.  anir!n<'nt((l  it.  '"  Well,"'  an- 
swered the  einpi  ror,  somewh;;t  aniuAeil  hy  his  <  ri-<ir,  "  hut  ynu  are  at 
all  events  living  in  celibacy  contrarx  to  recent  I'uactments."  The 
other  was  able  to  n  ply  that  he  was  married,  and  was  the  father  of 
three  leiritimatc  children;  and  w  lien  the  emjx  ror  si^'nitied  that  he  had 
no  lurtlu-r  charge  to  bring,  added  aloud.  •  Another  time,  Ca'sar,  \\hcu 
you  uivc  ear  to  informations  against  honot  nn  n.  take  care  that  your 
informants  arc  honest  themselves."  Aufru-tus  h  It  the  justice  of  the 
rebuke  thus  publicly  administered,  and  subniittcil  to  it  in  silence. 


THE  BURNING  OF  ROME.* 

Providence  was  preparing  an  awful  chastisement ;  and  was  about 

to  overwhtlm  Konie.  like  the  Cities  of  the  Plain,  in  a  sheet  of  retribu- 
tive fire.  Crowded.  ;is  the  ma.ss  of  the  citizens  were,  in  their  close 
wooden  dwelling-chanib.  r<.  aei  idenis  were  constantly  occurring  which 
involved  whole  streets  and  qu  rier-  of  the  city  in  wide-sprcadin":  con-, 
flarrrations.  and  the  efforts  of  tin-  ni-ht-watch  to  stem  these  outbursts 
of  fire,  with  few  of  the  appliances,  and  little,  perhaps,  even  of  the  disci- 
pline of  onr  modern  police.  w(Tc  but  imperfectly  effectual.  lUit  the 
greatest  of  all  the  fires  which  desolated  Eonie  was  that  which  broke 
out  on  the  19th  of  July,  in  the  year  817,  the  tenth  of  Nero,  A\hich 
began  at  the  eastern  end  of  the  Circus,  abutting  on  tlu-  vp.llcy  l)(tween 

♦  In  V    n   >n  U'.uu'  was  nea.lv  dcst.uv.d  by  a  tire  whicli  the  Einp.  .  -  lamself  ac- 

cused of  iustigaling.  In  order  to  remove  this  suspiciou  he  charged  the  ciuuc-  upon  the  Chris- 
tians, many  of  whom  were  in  consequence  subjected  to  the  most  cruel  tortures.  But  for  this 
fire  we  should  have,  perhaps,  stillleft  many  of  the  beautiful  structures  for  which  ancient  Rome 
was  80  famous,  only  the  ruins  of  which  now  remain. 


MEKIVALE.  2itb 

the  Palatine  and  the  Caelian  hills.  Against  the  outer  walls  of  this 
edifice  leaned  a  mass  of  wooden  booths  and  stores  filled  chiefly  with 
combustible  articles.  The  wind  from  the  cast  drove  the  flames  to- 
wanls  the  corner  of  the  Palatine,  wlience  they  forked  in  two  directions, 
following  the  draught  of  the  valleys.  At  neither  point  were  they 
encountered  by  the  massive  masonry  of  halls  or  temples,  till  they  had 
gained  such  head  that  the  mere  intensity  of  the  heat  crumbled  brick 
and  stone  like  paper.  The  Circus  itself  was  filled  from  eud  to  end 
with  wooden  galleries,  along  which  the  fire  coursed  with  a  speed 
which  defied  all  check  and  pursuit. 

The  flames  shot  up  to  the  heights  adjacent,  and  swept  the  base- 
ments of  many  noble  structures  on  the  Palatine  and  Aventine.  Again 
they  plunged  into  the  lowest  levels  of  the  city,  the  dense  habitations 
and  narrow  winding  streets  of  the  Vclabrum  and  Forum  Boarium,  till 
stopped  by  the  river  and  the  walls.  At  the  same  time  another  tor- 
rent rushed  towards  the  Velia  and  the  Esquiline,  and  sucked  up  all  the 
dwellings  within  its  reach ;  till  it  was  finally  arrested  by  the  clifi's 
beneath  the  gardens  of  Maecenas. 

Amidst  the  horror  and  confusion  of  the  scene,  the  smoke,  the  blaze, 
the  din,  and  the  scorching  heat,  with  half  the  population,  bond  and 
free,  cast  loose  and  houseless  into  the  streets,  ruffians  were  seen  to 
thrust  blazing  brands  into  the  buildings,  who  affirmed,  when  seized  by 
the  indignant  suff'erers,  that  they  were  acting  with  orders  ;  and  the 
crime,  which  was  probably  the  desperate  resource  of  slaves  and  robbers, 
was  imputed  by  fierce  suspicions  to  the  government  itself. 

At  such  a  moment  of  sorrow  and  consternation  every  trifle  is  seized 
to  confirm  the  suspicion  of  foul  play.  The  flames,  it  seems,  had  sub- 
sided after  raging  for  six  days,  and  the  wretched  outcasts  were  begin- 
ning to  take  breath  and  visit  the  ruins  of  their  habitations,  when  a 
second  conflagration  burst  out  in  a  diff'erent  quarter.  This  fire  com- 
mence at  the  point  where  the  iEmilian  gardens  of  Tigellinus  abutted 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  city  beneath  the  Pincian  hill ;  and  it  was  on 
Tigellinus  liimself,  the  object  already  of  popular  scorn  if  not  of  anger, 
that  the  suspicion  now  fell.  The  wind,  it  seems,  had  now  changed, 
for  the  fire  spread  from  the  northwest  towards  the  Quirinal  and  the 
Viminal,  destroying  the  buildings,  more  sparsely  planted,  of  the  quar- 
ter denominated  the  Via  Lata.  Three  days  exhausted  the  fury  of  this 
second  visitation,  in  which  the  loss  of  life  and  property  was  less,  but 
the  edifices  it  overthrew  were  generally  of  greater  interest,  shrines  and 
10»  o     ' 


226  cathcaet's  literary  reader. 

temples  of  the  gods,  and  halls  and  porticos  devoted  to  the  amusement 
or  convenience  of  the  people.  Altog^ether,  the  disaster,  whether  it 
spran*^  from  accident  or  design,  involved  nearly  the  whole  of  Rome. 

Of  the  fourteen  regions  of  the  city,  three  we  are  assured  were  en- 
tirely destroyed,  while  seven  others  were  injured  more  or  less  severe- 
ly ;  four  only  of  the  whole  number  escaped  unhurt.  The  fire  made  a 
complete  clearance  of  the  central  quarters,  leaving  perhaps  but  few 
public  buildings  erect,  even  on  the  Palatine  and  Aventine ;  but  it 
was,  for  the  most  part,  hemmed  in  by  the  crests  of  the  surrounding 
eminences,  and  confined  to  the  seething  crater  which  had  been  the 
cradle  of  the  Roman  people.  The  day  of  its  outburst,  it  was  remarked, 
was  that  of  the  first  burning  of  Rome  by  the  Gauls,  and  some  curious 
calculators  computed  that  the  addition  of  an  equal  number  of  years, 
months,  and  days  together  would  give  the  complete  period  which  had 
elapsed  in  the  long  interval  of  her  greatness.  Of  the  number  of 
houses  and  insula;  destroyed  Tacitus  does  not  venture  to  hazard  a 
statement ;  he  only  tantalizes  us  by  his  slender  notice  of  the  famous 
fanes  and  monuments  which  sank  in  the  common  ruin.  Among  them 
were  the  temple  of  Diana,  which  Servius  Tullius  had  erected;  the 
shrine  and  altar  of  Hercules,  consecrated  by  Evander,  as  affirmed  in 
the  tradition  impressed  upon  us  by  Virgil ;  the  Romulean  temple  of 
Jupiter  Stator,  the  remembrance  of  which  thrilled  the  soul  of  the 
banished  Ovid ;  the  little  Regia  of  Numa,  which  armed  so  many  a 
sarcasm  against  the  pride  of  consuls  and  imperators  ;  the  sanctuary  of 
Vesta  herself,  with  the  Palladium,  the  Penates,  and  the  ever-glo\i4ng 
hearth  of  the  Roman  people. 

But  the  loss  of  these  decayed  though  venerable  objects  was  not  the 
worst  disaster.  Many  an  unblemished  masterpiece  of  the  Grecian 
pencil  or  chisel  or  graver  —  the  prize  of  victory  —  was  devoured 
by  the  flames ;  and  amidst  all  the  splendor  with  which  Rome  rose 
afterwards  from  her  ashes,  old  men  could  lament  to  the  historian  the 
irreparable  sacrifice  of  these  ancient  glories.  Writings  and  documents 
of  no  common  interest  may  have  perished  at  the  same  time  irrecov- 
erably ;  and  with  them,  trophies,  images,  and  family  devices.  At  a 
moment  when  the  heads  of  patrician  bouses  were  falling  rapidly  by 
the  sword,  the  loss  of  such  memorials  was  the  more  deplorable. 


HOLMES.  227 

HOLMES. 

1809- 

OnvER  Wf.ndf.ll  IIolxks,  one  of  the  wittiest  and  wisest  of  American  writers,  was  bom  in 
Cambrid^.  Massachusetts,  in  1809,  and  graduated  at  Harvard  University  in  1829.  He  began 
the  study  of  law,  but  feeling  a  stronger  bent  toward  the  profession  of  medicine,  applied  himself 
teaJously  to  preparation  for  its  practice.  In  laiG,  having  spent  several  years  in  study  abroad, 
he  received  his  medical  degree  at  Cambridge  ,  two  years  later  was  appointed  to  a  professorship 
in  the  Dartuiouth  Medical  School,  and  in  18+7  succeeded  Dr.  Warren  as  Professor  of  Anatomy 
in  Harvard  University.  Hii  first  considerable  literary  effort  was  a  poem  delivered  before  the  Phi 
BeU  Kappa  Society  of  Harvard  in  1836.  It  received  warm  prai»c  from  competent  critics,  and 
it*  racccss  undoubtedly  confirmed  his  not  yet  openly  confessed  penchant  for  literar)'  labors.  The 
first  edition  of  his  collected  poems  was  pul)lished  in  18:^6,  and  at  least  a  dozen  editions  have 
followed  it  in  this  country  and  England.  His  range  in  poetry  is  limited,  though  perhaps  not 
necessarily  i  he  confined  his  efforts  in  fonncr  years  almost  exclusively  to  long  poems,  like 
Urania  and  Aitrita,  metrical  essays,  melodious,  polished,  and  glittering  with  wit,  and  in  later 
days  he  has  been  content  to  throw  off  short  lyrics  and  "occasional  pieces,"  which  are  so  ex- 
quisite that  the  public  reasonably  asks  for  more.  The  most  conspicuous  cluiracteristic  of  Dr. 
Holmes's  verse  is  humor,  of  indescribable  and  rarely  equaled  delicacy  and  brilliancy.  Several 
of  his  homomus  poems,  like  the  One-Host  Shay,  have  by  common  consent  been  elevated  to  the 
rank  of  clfissies  in  our  literature.  Not  less  felicitous  has  he  been  in  a  few  pieces  in  which  a  fine 
pathos  relieves  the  glow  of  his  wit.  But  admirable  as  are  his  poems,  his  greater  triumphs  have 
been  won  in  prose.  He  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  AtUintic  Monthly,  and  in  its  first  years 
was  a  regular  and  favorite  contributor  to  its  pages.  For  it  he  wrote  Tkt  Autocrat  of  the  Break- 
fiut-TabU,  and  later.  The  Professor  and  The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast-Table,  a  scries  of  papers  which 
are  unique  in  our  literature,  coniliining  in  a  marvelous  degree  the  rarest  qualities  of  the  light 
essay,  —  freshness  of  thought,  deftness  of  touch,  keen,  bat  good-humored  satire,  and  a  pervading 
atmosphere  of  wit  that  keeps  the  reader  in  a  state  of  continual  exhilaration.  As  a  novelist,  Dr. 
Holmes  has  succeeded  in  spite  of,  rather  than  in  accordance  with,  the  rules  which  govern  the 
composition  of  fiction ;  the  altounding  riches  of  his  fancy  and  the  play  of  his  unfailing  wit  over- 
leap the  ordinar}-  bounds  prescribed  to  the  novelist,  to  the  delight  of  his  readers,  if  not  to  the 
honor  of  literary  canons.  In  no  writer  of  the  present  day,  in  Europe  or  .America,  is  there  found 
•o  potent  a  combination  of  those  intellectual  qualities  which  mainly  contribute  to  a  writer's 
power,  as  is  seen  in  Dr.  Holmes.  While  he  is  surpassed  by  some  of  his  contemporaries  in 
single  gifts,  —  thou? h  by  none  in  wit  and  grace  of  style, —  of  the  harmonious  and  fruitful  union 
of  them  all  he  seems  to  stand  out  the  superior  representative.  His  success  in  prose  and  poetry 
may  be  mainly  attributed  to  liis  dexterous  avoidance  of  the  didactic ;  he  is  never  tedious,  and 
always  presenta  even  his  driest  matter  in  a  guise  that  commends  it  to  readers  of  all  tastes. 

ON  AMATEUR  WRITEES. 

If  I  were  a  literary  Pope  sending  out  an  Encyclical,  I  would  tell 
inexperienced  persons  that  nothing  is  so  frequent  as  to  mistake  an 
ordinary  human  gift  for  a  special  and  extraordinary  endowment. 
The  mechanism  of  breathing  and  that  of  swallowing  are  very  wonder- 
ful, and  if  one  had  seen  and  studied  them  in  his  own  person  only,  he 
might  well  think  himself  a  protligy.  Everv'body  knows  these  and 
other  bodily  faculties  are  common  gifts  ;  but  nobody  except  editors  and 
tchocl-teachers  and  here  and  there  a  literarv  man  knows  how  common 


2£8  CATHCAET^S    LITEEARY    READER. 

is  the  capacity  of  rhyming  and  prattling  in  readable  prose,  especially 
among  young  women  of  a  certain  degree  of  education.  In  my  char- 
acter of  Pontiif,  I  should  tell  these  young  persons  that  most  of  them 
labored  under  a  delusion.  It  is  very  hard  to  believe  it ;  one  feels  so 
full  of  intelligence  and  so  decidedly  superior  to  one's  dull  relations 
and  schoolmates ;  one  writes  so  easily  and  the  lines  sound  so  prettily 
to  one's  self;  there  are  such  felicities  of  expression,  just  like  those  we 
hear  quoted  from  the  great  poets ;  and  besides  one  has  been  told  by 
80  many  friends  that  all  one  had  to  do  was  to  print  and  be  famous ! 
Delusion,  my  poor  dej^,  delusion  at  least  nineteen  times  out  of  twenty, 
yes,  ninety-nine  times  in  a  hundred. 

But  as  private  father  confessor,  I  always  allow  as  much  as  I  can  for 
the  one  chance  in  the  hundred.  I  try  not  to  take  away  all  hope,  un- 
less the  case  is  clearly  desperate,  and  then  to  direct  the  activities  into 
some  other  channel. 

Using  kind  language,  I  can  talk  pretty  freely.  I  have  counselled 
more  than  one  aspirant  after  literary  fame  to  go  back  to  his  tailor's 
board  or  his  lapstone.  I  have  advised  the  dilettanti,  whose  foolish 
friends  praised  their  verses  or  their  stories,  to  give  up  all  their  decep- 
tire  dreams  of  making  a  name  by  their  genius,  and  go  to  Work  in  the 
study  of  a  profession  which  asked  only  for  the  diligent  use  of  average, 
ordinary  talents.  It  is  a  very  grave  responsibility  which  these  un- 
known correspondents  tlirow  upon  their  chosen  counselors.  One  whom 
you  have  never  seen,  who  lives  in  a  community  of  which  you  know 
nothing,  sends  you  specimens  more  or  less  painfully  voluminous  of 
his  writings,  which  he  asks  you  to  reatl  over,  think  over,  and  pray 
over,  and  send  back  an  answer  informing  him  whether  fame  and  for- 
tune are  awaiting  him  as  the  possessor  of  the  wonderful  gifts  his 
writings  manifest,  and  whether  you  advise  him  to  leave  all,  —  the 
shop  he  sweeps  out  every  morning,  the  ledger  he  posts,  the  mortar  in 
which  he  pounds,  the  bench  at  which  he  urges  the  reluctant  plane,  — 
and  follow  his  genius  whithersoever  it  may  lead  hira.  The  next  cor- 
respondent wants  you  to  mark  out  a  whole  course  of  life  for  him,  and 
the  means  of  judgment  he  gives  you  are  about  as  adequate  as  the 
brick  which  the  simpleton  of  old  carried  round  as  an  advertisement  of 
the  house  he  had  to  sell.  My  advice  to  all  young  men  that  write  to 
me  depends  somewhat  on  the  liand\vriting  and  spelling.  If  these  are 
of  a  certain  character,  and  they  have  reached  a  mature  age,  I  rec- 
ommend some  honest  manual  calling,  such  as  they  have  very  probably 


HOLMES.  229 

been  bred  to,  and  which  will,  at  least,  give  them  a  chance  of  becoming 
President  of  the  United  States  by  and  by,  if  that  is  any  object  to 
them.  What  would  you  have  done  with  the  youn<^  person  who  called 
on  me  a  good  many  years  ago,  —  so  many  that  he  has  prolxibly  for- 
gotten liis  literary  effort,  —  and  read  as  specimens  of  his  literary 
workmanship  lines  like  those  which  I  will  favor  you  with  presently? 
He  was  an  able-bodied,  grown-up  young  person,  whose  ingenuousness 
interested  me ;  and  I  am  sure  if  1  thought  he  would  ever  be  pained  to 
see  his  maiden  effort  in  print,  I  would  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of 
submitting  it  to  the  reader.  The  following  is  an  exact  transcript  of 
the  lines  he  showed  me,  and  which  I  took  down  on  the  spot :  — 

"  Are  you  in  the  Tein  for  cider? 
Are  you  in  the  tunc  for  pork? 
Hist!  for  Betty  '■  cleared  the  larder 
And  turned  the  pork  to  soap." 

Do  not  judge  too  hastily  this  sincere  effort  of  a  maiden  muse.  Here 
was  a  sense  of  rhythm,  and  an  effort  in  the  direction  of  rhyme  ;  here 
was  an  honest  transcript  of  an  occurrence  of  daily  life,  told  with  a 
certain  idealizing  expression,  recognizing  the  existence  of  impulses, 
mysterious  instincts,  impelling  us  even  in  the  selection  of  our  bodily 
sustenance,  l^ut  I  had  to  tell  him  that  it  wanted  dignity  of  incident 
and  grace  of  narrative,  that  there  was  no  atmosphere  to  it,  nothing  of 
the  light  that  never  was  and  so  forth.  I  did  not  say  this  in  these 
very  words,  but  I  gave  him  to  understiind,  without  being  too  hard 
upon  him,  that  he  had  better  not  desert  his  honest  toil  in  pursuit  of 
the  poet's  bays.  This,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  a  rather  discourag- 
ing case.  A  young  person  like  this  may  pierce,  as  the  Frenchmen 
say,  by  and  by,  but  the  chances  are  all  the  other  way. 

I  advise  aimless  young  men  to  choose  some  profession  without 
needless  delay,  and  so  get  into  a  good  strong  current  of  human  affairs, 
and  find  themselves  bound  up  in  interests  with  a  compact  body  of 
their  fellow-men. 

I  advise  young  women  who  write  to  me  for  counsel,  —  perhaps  I 
do  not  advise  them  at  all,  only  sympathize  a  little  with  them,  and 
listen  to  what  they  have  to  say  (eight  closely  written  pages  on  the 
average,  which  I  always  read  from  beginning  to  end,  thinking  of  the 
widow's  cruse  and  myself  in  the  character  of  Klijah)  and  —  and  — 
come  now,  I  don't  Inlievt?  Methuselah  would  tell  you  what  he  said 
in  his  letters  to  young  ladies,  written  when  he  was  in  his  nine  hun- 
dred and  sixty-ninth  year. 


230  cathcart's  uterary  reader. 

But,  dear  me  I  how  much  work  all  this  private  criticism  involves  ! 
An  editor  has  only  to  say  "  respectfully  d(;clined,"  and  there  is  the 
end  of  it.  But  the  coniidentiul  advistT  is  expected  to  give  the  reasons 
of  his  likes  and  dislikes  in  detail,  and  sometimes  to  enter  into  an  ar- 
gument for  their  support.  That  is  more  than  any  martyr  can  stand, 
but  what  trials  he  must  go  through,  as  it  is  !  Great  bundles  of  manu- 
scripts, verse  or  prose,  which  the  recipient  is  expected  to  read,  per- 
haps to  recommend  to  a  publisher,  at  any  rate  to  express  a  well- 
digested  and  agreeably  flavored  opinion  about ;  which  opinion,  nine 
times  out  of  ten,  disguise  it  as  we  may,  has  to  be  a  bitter  draught ; 
every  form  of  egotism,  conceit,  false  sentiment,  hunger  for  notoriety, 
and  eagerness  for  display  of  anserine  plumage  before  the  admiring 
public ;  —  all  these  come  in  by  mail  or  express,  covered  with  postage- 
stamps  of  so  much  more  cost  than  the  value  of  the  waste  words  they 
overlie,  that  one  comes  at  last  to  groan  and  change  color  at  the  very 
sight  of  a  package,  and  to  dnmd  the  postman's  knock  as  if  it  were 
that  of  the  other  visitor  whose  naked  knuckles  rap  at  every  door. 

Still  there  are  experiences  which  go  far  towards  repaying  all  these 
inflictions.  My  last  young  man's  case  looked  desperate  enough  ; 
some  of  his  sails  had  blown  from  the  rigging,  some  were  backing  in 
the  wind,  and  some  were  flapping  and  shivering,  but  I  told  him  which 
way  to  head,  and  to  my  surprise  he  promised  to  do  just  as  I  directed, 
and  I  do  not  doubt  is  under  full  sail  at  this  moment. 

What  if  I  should  tell  my  last,  my  very  recent  experience  with  the 
other  sex  ?  I  received  a  paper  containing  the  inner  history  of  a  young 
woman's  life,  the  evolution  of  her  consciousness  from  its  earliest 
record  of  itself,  written  so  thoughtfully,  so  sincerely,  with  so  much 
firmness  and  yet  so  much  delicacy,  with  such  truth  of  detail  and  such 
grace  in  the  manner  of  telling,  that  I  finished  the  long  manuscript  al- 
most at  a  sitting,  with  a  pleasure  rarely,  almost  never  experienced  in 
voluminous  commimications  which  one  has  to  spell  out  of  handwrit- 
ing. This  was  from  a  correspondent  who  made  my  acquaintance  by 
letter  when  she  was  little  more  than  a  child,  some  years  ago.  How 
easy  at  that  early  period  to  have  silenced  her  by  indifiference,  to  have 
womided  her  by  a  careless  epithet,  perhaps  even  to  have  crushed  her 
as  one  puts  his  heel  on  a  weed !  A  very  little  encouragement  kept 
hejT  from  despondency,  and  brought  back  one  of  those  overflows  of 
gratitude  which  make  one  more  ashamed  of  himself  for  being  so  over- 
paid, than  he  woidd  be  for  having  committed  any  of  the  lesser  sins. 


HOLMES. 


231 


But  what  pleased  me  most  in  the  paper  lately  received  was  to  see  how 
far  the  writer  had  out«p*own  the  need  of  any  encouragement  of  mine ; 
that  she  had  strenn^hened  out  of  her  tremulous  questionings  into  a  self- 
reliance  and  self-poise  which  I  had  hardly  dared  to  anticipate  for  her. 
Some  of  my  readers  who  are  also  writers  have  very  probably  had 
more  numerous  experiences  of  this  kind  than  I  can  lay  claim  to  ; 
self-revelations  from  unknown  and  sometimes  nameless  friends,  who 
write  from  strange  corners  where  the  winds  have  wafted  some  stray 
words  of  theirs  which  have  lighted  in  the  minds  and  reached  the 
hearts  of  those  to  whom  they  were  as  the  angel  that  stirred  the  pool 
of  Bethesda.  Perhaps  this  is  the  best  reward  authorship  brings ;  it 
may  not  imply  much  talent  or  literary  excellence,  but  it  means  that 
your  way  of  thinking  and  feeling  is  just  what  some  one  of  your  fellow- 
creatures  needed. 


I  KNOW  nothing  in  the  world  tenderer  than  the  pity  that  a  kind- 
hearted  young  girl  has  for  a  young  man  who  feels  lonely.  It  is  true 
that  these  dear  creatures  are  all  compassion  for  every  form  of  human 
woe,  and  anxious  to  alleviate  all  human  misfortunes.  They  will  go 
to  Sunday  schools  through  storms  their  brothers  are  afraid  of,  to 
teach  the  most  unpleasant  and  intractiible  classes  of  little  children  the 
age  of  Methuselah  and  the  dimensions  of  Og  the  King  of  Bashan's 
bedstead.  They  will  stand  behind  a  table  at  a  fair  all  day  until  they 
are  ready  to  drop,  dressed  in  their  prettiest  clothes  and  their  sweetest 
smiles,  and  lay  hands  upon  you,  —  to  make  you  buy  what  you  do  not 
want,  at  prices  which  you  cannot  afford ;  all  this  as  cheerfully  as  if  it 
were  not  martyrdom  to  them  as  well  as  to  you.  Such  is  their  love 
for  all  good  objects,  such  their  eagerness  to  sympathize  with  all  their 
suffering  fellow-creatures !  But  there  is  nothing  they  pity  as  they 
pity  a  lonely  young  man.  —  From  "  The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast-Table'* 


WiiE.v  we  are  as  yet  small  children  there  comes  up  to  us  a  youthful 
angel,  holding  in  his  right  hand  cubes  like  dice,  and  in  his  left  spheres 
like  marbles.  The  cubes  are  of  st^iinless  ivory,  and  on  each  is  written 
in  letters  of  gold,  —  Truth.  The  spheres  are  veined  and  streaked 
and  spotted  beneath,  with  a  dark  crimson  flush  above,  where  the  light 


2:52  (  AiiK  Ain's   litkraey  reader. 

falls  on  them,  and  in  a  certain  aspect  you  can  m.iki  out  u|)oii  ( v(  rv 
one  of  them  the  three  letters  T.,  I,  Iv  Tlic  child  to  whom  they  are 
otrcred  very  prolKd)ly  clntehes  .it  lidiji.  Tlic  jsphert's  arc  the  most 
(•()ii\(iiic;it  tliiii-j's  ill  tlic  world  :  tii«_\  rdl  with  the  least  ])os<il)li'  im- 
pulse jtl^^t  wlicnr  i\n'.  child  wuulil  li;i\c  tliciii.  The  cuIk'S  will  not  roll 
at  all  ;  they  have  a  jireat  talent  lor  standinjj  still,  and  always  keep 
riirlit  s:(l(  uj).  But  very  soon  tin-  \oiinu^  jihilosopher  finds  tliat  thinj^s 
which  roll  so  (rasily  arc  very  apt  to  roll  into  the  wrons:  corner,  and  to 
gfet  out  of  his  way  nsIkii  lie  most  want>  lliciii.  while  lie  always  knows 
where  to  find  the  others,  which  stay  where  they  are  left.  Thus  he 
huirns  —  thus  we  learn  —  to  drop  the  streaked  and  speckled  ji^lobes 
of  falsehood  and  to  hold  I'a^t  the  while  anmilar  hloeks  of  truth.  I'lit 
then  comes  Timidity,  and  atn  r  lu  r  (Jood-uature,  and  last  of  all  Polite- 
l>eha\  ior,  all  insistinp^  that  truth  uui-t  /o//,  or  nobody  can  do  any- 
tliinu^  with  it;  and  so  the  lirsi  with  her  coarse  rasp,  and  the  second 
with  her  hrojul  file,  and  the  third  with  her  silken  ^^Iccvc,  do  so  round 
off  and  smooth  and  poli>h  the  snow-white  cuius  of  truth,  that,  when 
they  have  j^ot  a  little  dinijy  hv  ii-i .  it  Ik  comes  hard  to  tell  them  from 
the  rollinij:  spheres  of  falsehood. 

riie  sihooliii;  tii  -s  was  polite  enough  to  say  that  she  was  pleased 
with  this,  and  that  she  would  read  it  to  her  little  flock  the  next  day. 
l^ut  she  should  tell  the  children,  she  said,  that  there  were  better  rea- 
sons for  truth  than  could  be  tonnd  in  mere  experience  of  its  conven- 
ience and  the  inconvenience  of  lying.  —  From '*  The  Autocrat  at  the 
BreakfMt-Tabler 


miDEB  THE  VIOLETS. 

Her  hands  are  cold  ;  her  face  is  white ; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go ; 

Her  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light ;  — 
Fold  the  white  vesture,  snoAv  on  snow, 
And  lay  her  where  the  violt  ts  blow . 

But  not  beneath  a  srraven  stone. 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 
Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies 
In  peace  beneath  the  peaceful  skies. 


HOLMES.  233 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 

Shall  wheel  their  circling  shadows  round, 

To  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 

That  drinks  the  greenness  from  the  ground. 
And  drop  their  dead  leaves  on  her  mound. 

When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels  run, 
And  through  their  leaves  the  robins  call. 

And,  ripening  in  the  autumn  sun, 
The  acorn? and  the  chestnuts  fall. 
Doubt  not  that  she  will  heed  them  all. 

For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sing 

Its  matins  from  the  branches  high, 
And  every  minstrel-voice  of  spring. 

That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky, 

Shall  greet  her  with  its  earliest  cry. 

When,  turning  round  their  dial-track, 

Eastwunl  the  lengthening  shadows  pass, 
Her  little  mourners,  clad  in  black. 

The  crickets,  sliding  through  the  grass. 

Shall  pip<^  for  her  an  evening  mass. 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 

Shall  find  the  prison  where  she  lies. 
And  bear  the  buried  dust  they  seize 

In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies. 

So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it  rise ! 

If  any,  bom  of  kindlier  blood, 

Should  ask.  What  maiden  lies  below  ? 
Say  only  this :  A  tender  bud, 

Tliat  trie<l  to  blossom  in  the  snow. 

Lies  withered  where  the  violets  blow. 


234 


READER. 


TENNYSON. 

1810- 

Alfbkd  TEXjrrsos,  nnqnestionably  the  first  of  living  poets,  was  born  in  Lincolnshire,  Eng- 
land, in  1810.  He  is  the  youngest  of  three  brothers,  all  of  whom  were  educated  at  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge,  and  gave  promise  of  marked  intellectual  greatness.  Indeed.  Wordsworth, 
estimating  a  volume  of  poems,  published  in  1829,  and  the  joint  work  of  Charles  and  Alfred  Ten- 
nyson, found  the  contributions  of  Charles  to  be  entitled  to  the  highest  praise.  Alfred  Tennyson's 
first  volume,  Pofwu,  ckirfly  Lyrical,  was  publiaheii  in  1830,  and  had  a  favorable  reception,  though 
its  merits  hardly  warranted  the  expectation  of  his  later  mast^ieres.  Two  editiunsof  his  Poeau 
followed,  in  18:32  and  1842,  the  latter  showing  a  marked  increase  of  strength  in  the  poet.  The 
PrtHceis,  appearing  in  1817.  elicited  various  comment,  though  there  was  but  one  opinion  among 
critics  as  to  the  delicacy  and  grace  of  its  execution.  In  1850  Tennyson  gave  to  the  world  a  poem 
which  instantly  quieted  all  doubts  as  to  his  title  to  the  highest  rank  among  contemporary  poets, 
and  which  was  universally  received  as  an  ample  warrant  for  liis  appointment  to  the  post  of  Poet 
Laureate,  which  was  made  in  the  same  year.  This  was  /m  Mrmoriam,  a  lament  for  the  poet's 
friend,  Arthur  Ilallam.  In  it  noble  thoughts  are  conveyed  in  a  guise  of  ideal  beauty,  —  a  com- 
bination which  has  hardly,  if  ever,  been  sarpaased  in  oor  literature.  Maud,  published  in  1853, 
added  nothing  to  the  poet's  fame ;  and  the  same  may  be  said  of  the  many  short  poems  from  his 
pen  which  preceded  the  publication  of  The  Idyls  of  the  King,  in  1859.  Tliese  poems  must  be  re- 
garded as  his  masterpieces,  and  can  fairly  be  compared  with  no  compositions  less  lofty  than  Mil- 
ton's. It  should  be  remarked,  however,  that  they  arc  unequal  in  merit,  the  earlier  Idyls  being 
superior  to  their  successors.  Yet  to  the  mass  of  readers  the  I.Aureate  is  best  known  by  his 
shorter  pieces,  some  of  which  are  familiar  as  bousebold  words.  Among  them  are  The  Queen  of 
the  May,  Locktley  Hall,  Lady  Clara  Fere  de  Fere,  and  the  exquisite  songs  which  are  scattered 
through  The  Princett,  and  some  of  the  longer  poems.  Tlie  charm  of  Tennyson's  poetry  lies  main- 
ly in  his  nnequaled  felicity  of  diction  :  his  choice  and  arrangement  of  words  and  adjustment  of 
epithets  almost  seem  to  be  the  result  of  inspiration,  so  happy  are  they.  The  most  striking  char- 
acteristic of  his  verse  is  refinement,  —  a  delicacy  of  sentiment  and  expression  tliat  has  rarely,  if 
ever,  been  attained  by  any  poet.  His  influence  upon  the  poetical  spirit  of  his  age  has  been  very 
potent,  and  to  the  purity  of  his  muse  is  due,  in  a  great  degree,  the  comparative  health  of  onr 
poetical  literature. 


CHABOE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE.* 


Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Forward  the  Light  Brigade  ! 
Charge  for  the  guns,"  he  said ; 
Into  the  valley  of  death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 


*  The  poem  refers  to  a  celebrated  cavalry  charge  of  the  British  at  the  battle  of  Balacla^-a,  25th 
October,  1854,  in  the  war  in  the  Crimea  betMeen  Russia  on  the  one  side  and  England  and 
France  on  the  other. 


TENNYSON.  235 

"  Forward  the  U^hi  Brigade ! " 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed  ? 
Not  thouj^h  the  soldier  knew 
Some  one  had  blundered  : 
Theirs  not  to  makir  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die ; 
Into  the  valley  of  death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them. 
Volleyed  and  thundcnid  ; 
Stonned  at  with  shot  a!id  shell. 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  de^ith, 
Into  the  mouth  of  hell 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flashed  all  their  sabers  bare. 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air, 
Sabring  the  gunners  there. 
Charging  an  army,  while 
All  the  world  wondered  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery  smoke, 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke  ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  saber  stroke 
Shattered  and  siuidered  : 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not  — 
Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  ])ehind  them. 
Volleyed  and  thundered  ; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 


236  cathcaet's  literaey  eeadee. 

Came  through  the  jaws  of  death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them. 
Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 

Oh  !  the  wild  charge  they  made  1 

All  the  world  woiidered. 

Honor  the  charge  they  made ; 

Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  Six  Hundred ! 

LADY  CLARA  VERB  DE  VEEE. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown : 
You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 

For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired  : 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name, 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine. 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 
•  Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  doats  on  truer  charms. 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 

Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  loTe, 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 


TENNYSON. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  stranjfc  luemories  in  my  head. 
Not  thrice  your  branchiii'j:  limes  have  blown 

Since  I  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
Oh !  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies ; 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be ; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 

Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view. 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed,  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear ; 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 

Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  specter  in  your  hall : 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door : 

You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to  gall. 
You  held  your  course  without  remorse. 

To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 
And,  last,  you  fixed  a  vacant  stare, 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent 
The  grand  old  ganlener  and  his  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

*T  is  only  noble  to  l)e  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere : 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers: 

The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 
Is  wejiritrd  of  the  rolling  hours. 

lu  glowing  hciilth,  with  boundless  wealth, 
But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease,      . 


237 


23S  CATHC art's  literary  reader. 

You  know  80  ill  to  deal  with  time, 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as  these. 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands  ? 
Oh  !  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orphan  girl  to  sew, 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 

TEE  BBOOK. 

I  SLIP,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows  ; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  sliallows. 

I  murnuir  under  moon  and  stars 
In  brambly  wildernesses ; 

I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars  ; 
I  loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

ENOCH  ARDEN  shipwrecked. 

The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak,  the  lawns 

And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways  to  Heaven, 

The  slender  coco's  drooping  crown  of  plumes. 

The  lightning  flash  of  insect  and  of  bird. 

The  luster  of  the  long  convolvuluses 

That  coiled  around  the  stately  stems,  and  ran 

Even  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glows 

And  glories  of  the  braad  belt  of  the  world, 

All  these  he  saw ;  but  what  he  fain  had  seen 

He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human  face. 

Nor  ever  hear  a  kindly  voice,  but  heard 


TENNYSON.  239 

The  myriad  shriek  of  wheelin<?  orcan-fowl, 

The  league-lonj?  roller  thundering  on  the  reef, 

The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that  branched 

And  blossomed  in  the  zenith,  or  the  sweep 

Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the  wave, 

As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all  day  long 

Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 

A  shipwrecked  sailor,  waiting  for  a  sail ; 

No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 

The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 

Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  precipices ; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east ; 

The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead ; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west ; 

Then  the  great  stars  that  globed  themselves  in  Heaven, 

The  hoUower-bellowing  ocean,  and  again 

The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise,  —  but  no  sail. 

THE  BUGLE  BONO. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits,  old  in  story ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear !  how  thin  and  clear. 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying : 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul. 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 


24^0  catucaet's  literacy  readee. 

GEAY. 

1810- 

PROncssoK  Asa  Gray,  the  eminent  botanist,  was  bom  in  Paris,  Oneida  County,  New  York, 
November  18,  1810.  He  studied  medicine,  but  his  entliusiastic  love  of  botanical  investigation 
withheld  him  from  the  practice  of  his  profession.  In  I8:it  he  received  the  appointment  of 
Botanist  to  tlic  United  Sutes  Exploring  ExpediUon,  but,  impatient  of  the  delays  wliich  hindered 
that  enterprise,  he  resigned  his  office  in  18;J7-  About  that  time  he  was  chosen  Professor  of 
Botany  in  the  University  of  Michigan  ;  before  that  institution  was  opened  he  accepted  the  Fisher 
Professorship  of  Natural  History  in  Harvard  University,  and  lias  ever  since  filled  it  with  honor 
U)  himself  and  great  advantage  to  science.  His  tirst  contribution  to  the  literature  of  botany 
was  Nitrlh  American  Gramine*  and  Cyperacea,  of  which  two  volumes  were  pulilished  in  1834-35. 
This  brought  him  prominently  before  the  scientific  world.  His  botanical  career,  however,  may 
be  said  to  date  from  his  reading  in  December,  1834,  before  the  New  York  Lyceum  of  Natural 
History,  of  A  Notice  of  tome  New,  Rare,  or  otherwise  Interesting  Plants  from  the  Northern  and 
Western  Portions  of  the  State  of  New  York.  In  1838,  in  conjunction  with  John  Torrey,  M.  D.,  he 
prepared  the  first  part  of  The  Flora  <^  North  Amrriea.  This  work  has  never  been  completed; 
lint  in  its  fragmentary  state  it  is  esteemed  one  of  the  most  valual)le  rontributions  ever  made 
in  America  to  the  science  of  Botany.  The  collections  nuwle  by  the  Exploring  Expedition  of 
Commodore  Wilkes,  during  the  years  1838-42,  except  those  obtained  from  the  Pacific  Coast, 
»-/ere  placed  in  the  hands  of  Professor  Gray  for  elaboration,  and  the  fruits  of  his  labors  are  pre- 
served in  two  volumes  on  the  Botany  of  the  United  States  Exploring  Expedition.  His  numerous 
papers  in  the  memoirs  of  the  learned  societies,  although  not  of  a  popular  character,  comprise  a 
large  part  of  his  most  important  contributions  to  science.  The  most  generally  interesting  one  is 
his  Memoir  on  the  Botany  of  Japan  in  its  BeUUons  to  that  of  the  United  States,  which  subject 
was  followed  up  in  his  Address  as  President  of  the  American  Association  for  the  Advancement 
of  Science,  delivei-ed  at  Dubuque,  August,  1873.  But  while,  by  the  works  above-mentioned  and 
many  others  unnamed.  Professor  Gray  has  won  fame  at  home  and  abroad,  he  has  established  a 
still  stronger  claim  upon  the  grateful  respect  of  humanity  by  his  untiring  and  successful  efforts 
to  popularise  the  study  of  BoUny  by  means  of  elementary  books.  His  Structural  Botany  has 
gone  through  a  multitude  of  editions,  and  is  universally  acceptetl  as  one  of  the  best  expositions 
of  vegetable  physiology  and  morphology  ever  written,  while  his  Manual  of  Botany  has  long 
been  known  as  a  standard  work.  Within  a  few  years  he  has  produced  several  books  of  an  ele- 
mentary character,  whirh  combine  literary  grace  and  substantial  instructun  in  singularly  happy 
union.  Among  these  are  How  Plants  Grow,  How  Plants  Behave,  Lessons  in  Botany,  The  School 
and  Field  Book  of  Botany,  etc.  Professor  Gray  possesses  remarkable  qualifications  for  this  work, 
his  expositions  being  singularly  clear,  and  his  style  in  all  respects  attractive.  As  a  represent- 
ative of  science  in  America,  he  enjoys  an  enviable  reputation  abroad,  and  his  works  are  quoted 
with  admiring  respect  by  the  most  distinguished  European  savans. 

HOW  CERTAIN  PLANTS  CAPTTJEE  INSECTS. 

This  is  not  a  common  habit  of  plants.  Insects  are  fed  and  allowed 
to  depart  unharmed.  When  captures  are  made  they  must  sometimes 
be  purely  accidental  and  meaningless ;  as  in  those  species  of  Silene 
called  Catch-fly,  because  small  flies  and  other  weak  insects,  sticking 
fast  to  a  clammy  exudation  of  the  calyxes  in  some  species,  of  a  part  of 
the  stem  in  others,  are  unable  to  extricate  themselves  and  so  perish. 
But  in  certain  cases  insects  are  cau2:ht  in  wavs  so  remarkable  that  w^e 
cannot  avoid  regarding  them  as  contrivances,  as  gtnwxne  Jly-trapa. 


GSAT. 


241 


I 


Flower  fly-traps  are  certainly  to  be  found  in  some  plants  of  the 
Orchis  family.  One  instance  is  that  of  Cypripedium  or  Lady's- 
Slipper,  which  is  a  contrivance  for  cross-fertilization.  Here  the 
insect  is  entrapped  for  the  purpose  of  securing  its  services ;  and  the 
detention  is  only  temporary.  If  it  did  not  escape  from  one  flower  to 
enter  into  another,  the  whole  purpose  of  the  contrivance  would  be 
defeated.  Not  so,  however,  in  le^f  fly-traps.  These  all  take  the 
insect's  life,  —  whether  with  intent  or  not  it  may  be  difficult  to  make 
out.  The  commonest  and  the  most  ambiguous  leaf  fly-traps  are  such 
as  Pitchers,  of  which  those  of  our  Sarracenia  or  Sidesaddle-flower  are 
most  familiar.  A  common  yellow-flowered  species  of  the  Southern 
States  has  them  so  very  long  and  narrow,  that  they  are  popularly 
named  Trumpets.  In  these  pitchers  or  tubes  water  is  generally  found, 
sometimes  caught  from  rain,  but  in  other  cases  evidently  furnished  by 
the  plant,  the  pitcher  being  so  constructed  that  water  cannot  rain  in  : 
this  water  abounds  with  drowi)etl  insects,  commonly  in  all  stages  of 
decay.  One  would  suppose  that  insects  which  have  crawled  into  the 
pitcher  might  as  readily  crawl  out ;  but  they  do  not,  and  closer  exam- 
ination shows  that  escaping  is  not  as  easy  as  entering.  In  most 
pitchers  of  this  sort  there  are  sharp  and  stiff  hairs  within,  all  pointing 
downward,  which  off"cr  considerable  obstruction  to  returning,  but 
none  to  entering. 

Why  plants  which  are  rooted  in  wet  bogs  or  in  moist  ground  need 
to  catch  water  in  pitchers,  or  to  secrete  it  there,  is  a  mystery,  unless  it 
is  wanted  to  drown  flies  in.  And  what  they  gjiin  from  a  solution  of 
dead  flics  is  eqiwlly  haril  to  guess,  unless  this  acts  as  a  liquid  manure. 

Into  such  pitchers  as  those  of  the  common  species  rain  may  fall ; 
but  not  readily  into  others,  not  at  all  into  those  of  the  Parrot-headed 
species  of  the  Southern  States,  for  the  inflated  lid  or  cover  arches 
over  the  month  of  the  pitcher  completely.  This  is  even  more  strik- 
ingly so  in  Darlingtoftia,  the  curious  Califomian  Pitcher-plant  lately 
made  known  and  cultivate<l :  in  this  the  contracted  entrance  to  the 
pitcher  is  concealed  under  the  hood  and  looks  downward'instead  of 
upwanl ;  and  even  the  small  chance  of  any  rain  entering  by  aid  of 
ti»e  wind  is,  as  it  were,  guarded  against  by  a  curious  appendage,  n;- 
sembling  the  forked  tail  of  some  fish,  which  hangs  over  the  front.  Any 
water  found  in  this  pitcher  must  come  from  the  plant  itself.  So  it 
also  must  in  the  combined  Pitcher  and  Tendril  of  Nepenthes.  These 
Pitcher-pknts  are  woody  climbers,  natives  of  the  Indian  Archipelago, 
11  p 


242  CATHCART^S   LITERARY  READER. 

and  not  rarely  cultivated  in  hothouses,  as  a  curiosity.  Some  of  their 
leaves  lengthen  the  tip  into  the  tendril  only  ;  some  of  the  lower  bear 
a  pitcher  only  ;  but  the  best  developed  leaves  have  both,  —  the  tendril 
for  climbing,  the  pitcher  one  can  hardly  say  for  what  purpose.  The 
pitcher  is  tightly  closed  by  a  neatly  fitting  lid  when  young ;  and  in 
strong  and  healthy  plants  there  is  commonly  a  little  water  in  it,  which 
could  not  possibly  have  been  introduced  from  without.  After  they 
are  fully  grown  the  lid  opens  by  a  hinge  ;  then  a  little  water  might  be 
supposed  to  rain  in.  In  the  humid,  sultry  climates  they  inhabit  it 
probably  does  so  freely  ;  and  the  leaves  are  found  partly  filled  with 
dead  flies,  as  in  our  wild  Pitcher-plants. 

The  drowning  of  insects  in  plant-pitchers  is  of  course  an  accidental 
occurrence,  and  any  supposed  advantage  of  this  to  the  plant  may  be 
altogether  fanciful.  But  we  cannot  deny  that  the  supply  of  liquid 
manure  may  be  useful.  Before  concluding  that  they  are  of  no  ac- 
count, it  may  be  well  to  contemplate  other  sorts  of  leaf  fly-traps. 

All  species  of  Sundew  (Drosera)  have  their  leaves,  and  some  their 
stalks  also,  beset  with  bristles  tipped  with  a  gland  from  which  oozes 
a  drop  of  clear  but  very  glutinous  liquid,  making  the  plant  appear  as 
if  studded  with  dew-drops.  These  remain,  glistening  in  the  sun,  long 
after  dew-drops  would  have  been  dissipated.  Small  flies,  gnats,  and 
such-like  insects,  seemingly  enticed  by  the  glittering  drops,  stick  fast 
upon  them,  and  perish  by  starvation,  one  would  suppose  without  any 
benefit  whatever  to  the  plant.  But  in  the  broad-leaved  wild  species 
of  our  bogs,  such  as  the  common  Round-leaved  Sundew,  the  upper 
face  and  edges  of  the  blade  of  the  leaf  bear  stronger  bristles,  tipped 
with  a  lai-ger  glutinous  drop,  and  the  whole  forms  what  we  must 
allow  to  be  a  veritable  fly-trap. 

For,  when  a  small  fly  alights  on  the  upper  face,  and  is  held  by  some 
of  the  glutinous  drops  long  enough  for  the  leaf  to  act,  the  surround- 
ing bristles  slowly  bend  inwards  so  as  to  bring  their  glutinous  tips 
also  against  the  body  of  the  insect,  adding,  one  by  one,  to  the  bonds, 
and  rendering  captivity  and  death  cei-tain.  This  movement  of  the 
bristles  must  be  of  the  same  nature  as  that  by  which  tendrils  and  some 
leafstalks  bend  or  coil.  It  is  much  too  slow  to  be  visible  except  in 
the  result,  which  takes  a  few  hours  or  even  a  day  or  two  to  be  com- 
pleted. Here,  then,  is  a  contrivance  for  catching  flies,  a  most  elabo- 
rate one,  in  action  slow  but  sure.  And  the  different  species  of  Sun- 
dew ofi'er  all  gradations  between  those  with  merely  scattered  and 


GRAY.  243 

motionless  dewy-tipped  bristles,  to  which  flies  may  chance  to  stick, 
and  this  more  complex  arrangement,  which  we  cannot  avoid  rej^rding 
as  intended  for  fly -catching.  Moreover,  in  both  of  our  commoner 
species,  the  blade  of  the  leaf  itself  incurves,  so  as  to  fold  round  its 
victim ! 

And  a  most  practiced  observer,  whose  observations  are  not  yet  pub- 
lished, declares  that  the  leaves  of  the  common  Round-leaved  Sundew 
act  differently  when  different  objects  are  placed  upon  them.  For  in- 
stance, if  a  particle  of  raw  meat  be  substituted  for  the  living  fly,  the 
bristles  will  close  upon  it  in  the  same  manner ;  but  to  a  particle  of 
chalk  or  wood  they  remain  nearly  indifferent.  If  any  doubt  should 
still  remain  whether  the  fly-catching  in  Sundews  is  accidental  or  in- 
tentional, —  in  otiier  words,  whether  the  leaf  is  so  constructed  and 
arranged  in  order  that  it  may  capture  flies,  —  the  doubt  may  perhaps 
disappear  upon  the  contemplation  of  another  and  even  more  extraor- 
dinary plant  of  the  same  family  of  the  Sundew,  namely,  Venus's  Fly- 
trip,  or  Dion/ea  muscipula.  This  plant  abounds  in  the  low  savannas 
around  Wilmington,  North  Carolina,  and  is  native  nowhere  else.  It 
is  not  very  difficult  to  cultivate,  at  least  for  a  time,  and  it  is  kept  in 
many  choice  conservatories  as  a  vegetable  wonder. 

The  trap  is  the  end  of  the  leaf.  It  is  somewhat  like  the  leaf  of 
Sundew,  oidy  larger,  about  an  inch  in  diameter,  vnth  bristles  still 
stouter,  but  only  round  the  margin,  like  a  fringe,  ijind  no  clammy 
liquid  or  gland  at  their  tips.  The  leaf  folds  on  itself  as  if  hinged  at 
the  midrib.  Three  more  delicate  bristles  are  seen  on  the  face  upon 
close  inspection.  When  these  are  touched  by  the  finger  or  the  point 
of  a  pencil,  the  open  trap  shuts  with  a  quick  motion,  and  after  a  con- 
siderable interval  it  reopens.  When  a  fly  or  other  insect  alights  on  the 
surface  and  brushes  against  these  sensitive  bristles,  the  trap  closes 
promptly,  generally  imprisoning  the  intruder.  It  closes  at  first  with 
the  sides  convex  and  the  bristles  crossing  each  other  like  the  fingers 
of  interlocked  hands  or  the  teeth  of  a  steel  trap.  But  soon  the  sides 
of  the  trap  flatten  down  and  press  firmly  upon  the  victim  ;  and  it  now 
requires  a  very  considerable  force  to  open  the  trap.  If  nothing  is 
caught,  the  trap  presently  reopens  of  itself  and  is  reatly  for  another 
attempt.  When  a  fly  or  any  similar  insect  is  capturexl  it  is  retained 
until  it  perishes,  —  is  killed,  indeed,  and  consumed ;  after  which  it 
opens  for  another  capture.  But  after  the  first  or  second  it  acts  slug- 
gishly and  feebly,  it  ages  and  hardens,  at  length  loses  its  sensibility, 
and  slowly  decays. 


244  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

It  cannot  be  supposed  that  plants,  like  boys,  catch  flies  for  pas- 
time or  in  objectless  wantonness.  Living  beings  though  they  are,  yet 
they  are  not  of  a  sufficiently  high  order  for  that.  It  is  equally  in- 
credible that  such  an  exquisite  apparatus  as  this  should  be  purpose- 
less. And  in  the  present  case  the  evidence  of  the  purpose  and  of  the 
meaning  of  the  strange  action  is  wellnigh  complete.  The  face  of  this 
living  trap  is  thickly  sprinkled  with  glands  immersed  in  its  texture, 
of  elaborate  structure  under  the  microscope,  but  large  enough  to  Ije 
clearly  discerned  with  a  hand-lens ;  these  glands,  soon  after  an  insect 
is  closed  upon,  give  out  a  saliva-like  liquid,  which  moistens  the  insect, 
and  in  a  short  time  (within  a  week)  dissolves  all  its  soft  parts,  —  di- 
gests them,  we  must  believe  ;  and  the  liquid,  with  the  animal  matter 
it  has  dissolvetl,  is  re-absorbed  into  the  leaf!  We  are  forced  to  con- 
clude that,  in  addition  to  the  ordinary  faculties  and  function  of  a 
vegetable,  this  plant  is  really  carnivorous. 

That,  while  all  plants  are  food  for  animals,  some  few  should,  in 
turn  and  to  some  extent,  feed  upon  them,  will  appear  more  credible 
when  it  is  considered  that  whole  trilics  of  plants  of  the  lowest  grade 
(Mould-Fungi  and  the  like)  habitually  feed  upon  living  plants  and 
living  animals,  or  upon  their  juices  when  dead.  An  account  of  them 
would  make  a  volume  of  itself,  and  an  interesting  one.  But  all  goes 
to  show  that  the  instances  of  extraordinary  behavior  which  have  been 
recounted  in  these  chapters  *  are  not  mere  prodigies,  wholly  out  of 
the  general  order  of  Nature,  but  belong  to  the  order  of  Nature,  and  in- 
deed are  hardly  diiferent  in  kind  from,  or  really  more  wonderful  than, 
the  doings  of  many  of  the  commonest  plants,  which,  until  our  special 
attention  is  called  to  them,  ordinarily  pass  unregarded. 

•  How  Plants  Behave :  How  they  move,  climb,  employ  insects  to  work  for  them,  etc.    A  charm- 
ing elementary  work,  from  which  this  extract  is  taken. 


POB.  245 

POE. 
1811-1849. 

EooAR  Allah  ton,  perhaps  the  iiio«t  brilliant,  and  ■nrely  the  most  rnifbrtoiiate,  of  jomg 
American  poets,  was  bom  in  Baltimore,  Maryland,  in  ISII,  and  died  in  1»19.  Left  a  penniless 
orpiian  on  the  death  of  bis  parenU,  who  were  members  of  the  theatrical  profession,  he  was 
adopted  by  a  nch  mercliant  of  Baltimore,  and  sent  to  school.  In  1822  be  entered  the  Univer- 
sity ol  Virginia,  but  his  habits  soon  became  so  dissolute  as  to  compel  his  expulsion.  His  bene- 
factor refusing  young  Foe's  demands  for  money  to  l»e  squandered  at  the  gaming-table,  the  latter 
resolved  to  go,  like  Byron,  to  the  aid  of  the  struggling  Greeks.  He  went  to  Europe,  but  never 
reached  the  theater  of  war,  and  in  about  a  year  was  sent  home  by  the  United  States  Consul 
at  St.  Petersburg.  His  long-suffering  benefactor  next  procured  him  an  appointment  to  West 
Point ;  but  the  high-spirited  youth  c»)uld  not  endure  the  strict  discipline  of  eadet-life,  and  in 
IcH  than  a  year  he  was  again  expelled.  Again  he  was  received  at  the  house  of  his  benefactor, 
but  his  stay,  this  time,  was  short ;  for  some  offense  whose  nature  has  never  been  clearly  ex- 
plained, be  was  shut  out  forever  from  the  house  that  had  been  his  only  home.  He  at  once  entered 
npon  that  career  of  literary  Bohemianism  which  was  to  end  only  with  his  life.  In  1829  a  small 
coUcctiuD  of  his  poems  was  published  in  Baltimore,  and  was  received  with  encouraging  favor ; 
but  his  literary  work  done  prior  to  his  twenty-fourth  year  had  little  permanent  value.  While 
editing  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  at  Riclimond,  Virginia,  18:J5-37,  he  married  his 
cutuin,  Virginia  Clemm.  In  IXtg  he  went  to  New  York,  where  he  wrote  for  newspapers  and 
magazines,  and  in  IHWJ  to  Philadelphia,  where  he  edited  Graham's  Magazine.  Returning  to  the 
first-named  city,  he  engaged  in  miscellaneous  literary  labor,  contributing  his  most  famous  poem, 
TU  Rmwen,  to  Colton's  Whig  Review,  in  February,  1845.  His  life,  during  the  next  four  years, 
was  a  sad  one;  porerty  continually  oppressed  him  ;  his  loving  and  suffering  wife  was  taken  from 
him  :  and.  at  last,  having  become  almost  a  vagalrand,  he  was  carried  to  the  Baltimore  Hospital, 
where  he  died.  October  7.  1»W,  aged  thirty-eight  years.  Although  Pbe  is  best  known  as  a  poet, 
many  of  the  ablest  critics  agree  that  he  was  even  greater  as  a  writer  of  talcs.  In  this  depart- 
ment of  literature  he  occupied  a  niche  in  which  he  has  had  no  saccesaor.  His  imagination  was 
exceptionally  powerful,  his  love  of  the  weird  and  marvelous  very  strong,  and  his  skill  in  produ- 
eiag  aomber  and  uncanny  effects  was  extraordinary.  Though  he  wrote  a  good  deal  of  verse,  but 
a  small  proportion  of  it  is  worthy  of  his  genius.  As  a  critic  he  was  remarkable  mainly  for  his  vio- 
lent abasireaeas,  and  his  lAterati  of  Nrw  York  Cilif,  tliough  spicy  reading,  gives  no  evidence  of 
yg)i  critical  power.  Two  or  three  of  his  poems.  J%f  Raten,  The  BrlU,  Annahrl  Ue,  and  perhaps 
some  others,  will  always  be  read  and  admired.  The  story  of  his  short  life  conveys  a  solemn 
warning,  and  soggests  the  thought  that  the  most  brilliant  intellectual  gifts  are  a  curse  rather 
than  a  blessing,  if  nnaccompanied  by  a  vigorous  directing  and  controlling  moral  sense.  It  con- 
firms, too.  the  notion  that  marked  precocity  is  unfavorable  to.  if  not  absolutely  incompatible 
with,  healthy  and  fruitful  intellectual  development.  In  the  most  prosperous  natures,  the  moral 
growth  precedes  the  mental,  —  is  iU  guide  and  support  Yet  Poe  is  to  be  pitied  rather  than  con- 
iwrrf :  kis  bolts  grew  oat  of  his 


ANNABEL  LEE. 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  Icinj^dom  hy  tlie  sea, 
That  a  maiden  lived,  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee  ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love,  and  be  loved  bv  me. 


246  cathcart's  literary  reader, 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child. 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea ; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee,  — 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 
So  that  her  high-bom  kinsmen  came. 

And  bore  her  away  from  me. 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulcher. 

In  this  lungdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  so  happy  in  heaven. 

Went  envying  her  and  me. 
Yes  !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know) 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night. 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we. 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we ; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above. 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea. 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee, 
And  the  stars  never  rise  hut  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling,  my  darlins:,  my  life,  and  my  bride, 

In  her  sepulcher  there  by  the  sea. 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


POE.  U7 


FBOX  THE  BAVEN. 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  wealc  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore,  — 
AVhile  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"  'T  is  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "  tapping  at  my  chamber  door  ; 
Only  this,  and  nothing  more.** 


Open  then  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter. 

In  there  stepped  a  stately  raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  an  instant  stopped  or  stayed 

he ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber  door,  — 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber  door,  — 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling. 

By  the  grave  and  stem  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 

"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "  art  sure  no 

craven  ; 
Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  raven,  wandering  from  the  nightly  shore. 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  night's  Plutonian  shore  ?  " 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  !  " 

THE   BELLS. 
I. 
Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells,  — 
Silver  bells,  — 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells  ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight,  — 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rh>'mc. 


248  CATHCAKT^S    LITERARY    READER. 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 


Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells,  — 
Gohlen  bells  ! 
What  a  worhl  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells  I 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight  1 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 
And  all  in  tune, 
•  What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 

To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon ! 
0,  from  out  the  sounding  cells. 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells ! 
How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future  !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells. 

III. 
Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells,  — 
Brazen  bells  ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells  ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak. 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune. 
In  the  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire 


POK.  249 

Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
AVith  a  dtsjKTate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor, 
Now  — now  to  ait  or  never. 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
O  the  Ih'Us,  bells,  Ijells, 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  despair ! 
How  they  clang  and  clash  and  roar  1 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  tlie  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging. 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells. 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells. 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
BeUs,  beUs,  beUs,— 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells  1 


Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells,  — 
Iron  bells  ! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels 
In  the  silence  of  the  night. 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone ; 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 
Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people, —  ah,  the  people, 

They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple. 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling. 


."lO 


In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glorv  in  so  rolling 

On  the  limuan  heart  a  stone,  — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman,  — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human,  — 

They  are  ghouls : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Eolls, 

A  paean  from  the  bells ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells  I 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme. 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme. 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  — 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells  ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells. 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme. 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells,  — 
Of  the  beUs,  bells,  bells,  — 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells. 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  beUs,  — 
Bells,  bells,  bells,  — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


GttEELEY,  2,bi 

GEEELEY. 
1811-1873. 

HotACR  Gbkklit,  the  greatest  of  American  joumalUU,  and  eminent  as  a  writer  of  pore  and 
Tigorou*  Engliali,  wa«  bom  in  AmherBt,  New  Hampshire,  in  IHII  and  died  iu  1B72.  He  waa  the 
ton  of  a  poor  farmer,  and  was  in  every  sense  "  a  self-made  man."  Pure  in  mind,  honest  and 
upright  to  such  an  extent  that  he  was  called  by  many  an  eccentric  man,  he  made  his  way,  by  his 
own  unaided  efforts,  from  porerty  to  well-deserved  fame  as  a  writer  and  philosopher.  His  style 
14  better  in  certain  respects  than  that  of  any  of  his  contemporary  writers.  It  is  terse  and 
masculine,  so  evenly  balanced  and  nicely  constructed,  so  simple  and  yet  so  graceful  that  it  is 
equally  admirrd  by  the  uneducated  farmer  and  the  fastidious  literary  critic.  Mr.  Greeley  will 
always  be  best  known  as  the  founder  and  first  editor  of  the  New  York  Tributu.  but  his  collected 
writings  will  hold  a  place  in  sUndard  American  literature.  The  best  known  of  these  are:  Rec- 
MeetioHt  of  «  Bu$y  life,  Wkmt  I  hum  of  Farwdmg,  and  The  Auericam  Comfiict,  a  history  of  the 
late  eivil  war. 

THE  EDITOB. 

It  only  remains  to  me  to  speak  more  especially  of  my  own  voca- 
tion,—  the  Editor's,  —  which  bears  much  the  same  relation  to  the 
Author's  that  the  Bellows-blower's  bears  to  the  Organist's,  the  Player's 
to  the  Dramatist's.  The  Editor,  from  the  absolute  necessity  of  the 
case,  cannot  speak  deliberately ;  he  must  write  to-day  of  to-day's 
incidents  and  aspects,  though  these  may  be  completely  overlaid  and 
transformed  by  the  incidents  and  aspects  of  to-morrow.  He  must 
write  and  strive  in  the  full  consciousness  that  whatever  honor  or  dis- 
tinction he  may  acquire  must  perish  with  the  generation  that  bestowed 
them.  No  other  public  teacher  lives  so  wholly  in  the  present  as  the 
Editor ;  and  the  noblest  affirmations  of  luipopular  truth  —  the  most 
self-sacrificing  defiance  of  a  base  and  selfish  Public  Sentiment  that 
r^ards  oidy  the  most  sonlid  ends,  and  values  every  utterance  solely 
as  it  tends  to  preserve  quiet  and  contentment,  while  the  dollars  fall 
jingling  into  the  merchant's  drawer,  the  land-jobber's  vault,  and  the 
miser's  bag  —  can  but  be  noted  in  their  day,  and  with  their  day  for- 
gotten. It  is  his  cue  to  utter  silken  and  smooth  sayings,  —  to  con- 
demn Vice  80  as  not  to  interfere  with  the  plAsures  or  alarm  tlie 
consciences  of  the  vicious,  —  to  commend  and  glorify  Lal)or  without 
attempting  to  expose  or  repress  any  of  the  gainful  contrivances  by 
which  Labor  is  plundered  and  degrwle*!.  Thus  sidling  dexterously 
between  somewhere  and  nowhere,  the  Able  E<litor  of  the  Ninett«nth 
Century  may  glide  through  life  respectable  and  in  good  case,  and  lie 
down  to  his  long  rest  with  the  non-achievements  of  his  life  embkr 


ZoZ  CATIICAItr's    LITLUARV    KEADER. 

zoned  on  the  very  whitest  marble,  surmounting  and  glorifying  his 
dust. 

There  is  a  different  and  sterner  path,  —  I  know  not  whether  there 
be  any  now  qualified  to  tread  it,  —  I  am  not  sure  that  even  one  has 
ever  followed  it  implicitly,  in  view  of  the  ctrtain  meagerness  of  its 
teniponil  rewards  and  the  haste  wherewith  any  fame  acquired  in  a 
sphere  so  thoroughly  ephemeral  as  the  Editor's  must  be  shrouded  by 
the  dark  waters  of  oblivion.  This  path  demands  an  ear  ever  open  to 
the  plaints  of  the  wronged  and  the  suffering,  though  they  can  never 
repay  advoaicy,  and  those  who  mainly  support  newspajxrs  will  be 
annoyed  and  often  exposed  by  it ;  a  heart  as  sensitive  to  oppression 
and  degradation  in  the  next  street  as  if  they  were  practiced  in  Brazil 
or  Japan ;  a  pen  as  reatly  to  expose  and  reprove  the  crimes  whereby 
wealth  is  amassed  and  luxury  enjoyed  in  our  own  countr}'  at  this  hour, 
as  if  they  had  only  been  committed  by  Turks  or  Pagans  in  Asia  some 
centuries  ago.  Such  an  Editor,  could  one  be  found  or  traiued,  need 
not  expect  to  leatl  an  easy,  indolent,  or  wholly  joyous  life,  —  to  l)e 
blessed  by  Archbishops  or  followed  by  the  approving  shouts  of  as- 
cendant majorities  :  but  he  might  find  some  recompense  for  their  loss 
in  the  calm  verdict  of  an  approving  conscience ;  and  the  tears  of  the 
despised  and  the  friendless,  preserved  from  utter  despair  by  his  efforts 
and  remonstrances,  might  freshen  for  a  season  the  daisies  that  bloomed 
above  his  grave. 

THE  SEFOSHEB. 

And,  indeed,  though  the  life  of  the  Reformer  may  seem  rugged  and 
arduous,  it  were  hard  to  say  considerately  that  any  other  were  worth 
living  at  all.  Wlio  can  thoughtfully  affirm  that  the  career  of  the  con- 
quering, desolating,  subjugating  warrior,  —  of  the  devotee  of  Gold,  or 
Pomp,  or  Sensual  Joys ;  the  monarch  in  his  purple,  the  Miser  by  his 
chest,  the  wassailer  over  his  bowl,  —  is  not  a  libel  on  Humanity  and 
an  offense  against  God  ?  But  the  earnest,  unselfish  Reformer,  — 
—  bom  into  a  stafe  of  darkness,  evil,  and  suffering,  and  honestly 
striving  to  replace  these  by  light  and  purity  and  happiness,  —  he 
may  fall  and  die,  as  so  many  have  done  before  him,  but  he  cannot  fail. 
His  vindication  shall  gleam  from  the  walls  of  his  hovel,  his  dungeon, 
his  tomb  ;  it  shall  shine  in  the  radiant  eyes  of  uncomipted  Child- 
hood, and  fall  in  blessings  from  the  Mps  of  high-hearted,  generous 
Yojiith. 


GREELEY.  253 

As  the  untimely  death  of  the  good  is  our  strongest  moral  assurance 
of  the  Resurrection,  so  the  life  wearily  worn  out  in  doubtful  and  per- 
ilous conflict  with  Wrong  and  Woe  is  our  most  conclusive  evidence 
that  Wrong  and  Woe  shall  yet  vanish  forever.  Luther,  dying  amid 
the  agonizing  tears  and  wild  consternation  of  all  Protestant  Germany, 
—  Cohunbus,  borne  in  rcgiU  pomp  to  his  grave  by  the  satellites  of  the 
royal  miscreant  whose  ingratitude  and  pei-fidy  had  broken  his  mighty 
heart,*  —  these  teach  us,  at  least,  that  all  true  greatness  is  ripened 
and  tempered  and  provexl  in  life-long  stniggle  against  vicious  beliefs, 
traditions,  practices,  institutions  ;  and  that  not  to  have  been  a  Re- 
former is  not  to  have  truly  livwl. 

Life  is  a  bubble  which  any  breath  may  dissolve  ;  Wealth  or  Power 
a  snow-flake,  melting  momently  into  the  treacherous  deep  across  whose 
waves  we  are  floated  on  to  our  unseen  destiny :  but  to  have  lived  so 
that  one  less  orphan  is  called  to  choose  Ijetween  starvation  and  infamy, 
to  have  lived  so  that  some  eyes  of  those  whom  Fame  shall  never  know 
are  brightcne<l  and  others  suffused  at  the  name  of  the  beloved  one,  — 
so  that  the  few  who  knew  him  tnily  shall  recognize  him  as  a  bright, 
warm,  cheering  presence,  which  was  here  for  a  season  and  left  the  world 
no  worse  for  his  stay  in  it,  —  this  surely  is  to  have  really  livedo  —  and 
not  wholly  in  vain. 

AGRICULTURE. 

Is  agriculture  a  repulsive  pursuit?  That  what  has  been  called 
farming  has  repelled  many  of  the  youth  of  our  day,  I  perceive  ;  and  I 
glory  in  the  fact.  An  American  boy,  who  has  received  a  fair  com- 
mon-school education  and  has  an  active,  inquiring  mind,  docs  not 
willingly  consent  merely  to  drive  oxen  and  hold  the  plow  forever.  He 
will  do  these  with  alacrity,  if  they  come  in  his  way ;  he  will  not 
accept  them  as  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  of  his  career.  He  will  not 
sit  down  in  a  rude,  slovenly,  naked  home,  devoid  of  flowers,  and  trees, 
and  lx)ok8,  and  periodicals,  and  intelligent,  inspiring,  refining  con- 
versation, and  tht-re  plod  through  a  life  of  dnidgery  as  hopeless  and 
cheerless  as  any  mule's.  He  has  needs,  and  hopes,  and  aspirations, 
which  this  life  does  not  and  ought  not  to  satisfy.  This  might  have 
senwl  his  progenitor  in  the  ninth  centur}' ;  but  this  is  the  nineteenth, 
and  the  young  American  knows  it. 

He  needs  to  feel  the  intiUectual  life  of  the  period  flowing  freely 

*  See  note,  page  98. 


254  CATHCARTS    LlTERAilY    READER. 

into  and  throuj^h  him,  —  needs  to  feel  that,  thouj^^h  the  city  and  the 
railroad  are  out  of  sight,  the  latter  is  daily  bringing  within  his  reach 
all  that  is  noblest  and  best  in  the  achievements  and  attractions  of  the 
former.  He  may  not  listen  to  our  ablest  orators  in  the  senate  or  in 
the  pulpit;  but  the  press  multiplies  their  best  thoughts  and  most 
forcible  expressions  at  the  rate  of  ten  to  twenty  thousand  copies  per 
hour ;  and  its  issues  are  within  the  reach  of  every  industrious  family. 

To  aiTtist  the  rush  of  our  youth  to  the  cities,  we  have  only  to  diffuse 
what  is  best  of  the  cities  through  the  country ;  and  this  the  latest 
triumphs  of  civilization  enable  us  easily  to  do.  A  home  iri-adiated  by 
the  best  thoughts  of  the  sages  and  heroes  of  all  time,  even  though 
these  be  compressed  within  a  few  rusty  volumes,  cheered  by  the  fre- 
quent arrival  of  two  or  three  choice  periodicals,  and  surrounded  by 
such  floral  evidences  of  taste  and  refinement  as  are  within  the  reach  of 
the  poorest  owner  of  the  soil  he  tills,  will  not  be  spurned  as  a  prison 
by  any  youth  not  thoroughly  corrupted  and  depraved. 

Any  American  farmer,  who  has  two  hands  and  knows  how  to  use 
them,  may,  at  fifty  years  of  age,  have  a  better  library  than  King  Solo- 
mon ever  dreamed  of,  though  he  declared  that  "  of  making  of  many 
books  there  is  no  end  "  ;  any  intelligent  farmer's  son  may  have  a  better 
knowledge  of  Nature  and  her  laAvs  when  twenty  years  old  than  Aris- 
totle or  Pliny  ever  attained.  The  steam-engine,  the  electric  telegraph, 
and  the  power-press  have  brought  knowledge  nearer  to  the  humblest 
cabin  than  it  was,  ten  centuries  since,  to  the  stateliest  mansion ;  let 
the  cabin  be  careful  not  to  disparage  or  repel  it. 

But  thousands  of  farmers  are  more  intent  on  leaving  money  and 
lands  to  their  children  than  on  informing  and  enriching  their  minds. 
They  starve  their  souls  in  order  to  pamper  their  bodies.  They  grudge 
their  sons  that  which  would  make  them  truly  wise,  in  order  to  provide 
them  with  what  can  at  best  but  make  them  rich  in  corn  and  cattle, 
while  poor  in  manly  purpose  and  generous  ideas. 

Modern  agriculture  is  an  art  —  or  rather  a  circle  of  arts  —  based 
upon  natural  science,  which  is  a  methodical  exposition  of  divine  law. 
The  savage  is  Nature's  thrall,  whom  she  scorches,  freezes,  starves, 
drowns,  as  her  caprice  m.iy  dictate.  He  lives  in  constant  dread  of 
her  frosts,  her  tornadoes,  her  lightnings.  Science  teaches  his  civilized 
successor  to  turn  her  wildest  eccentricities  to  his  own  use  and  profit. 
Her  floods  and  gales  saw  his  timber  and  grind  his  grain ;  in  time, 
they  will  chop  bis  trees,  speed  his  plow,  and  till  his  crops  as  well. 


GREELEY.  255 

Science  transforms  and  exalts  him  from  the  slave  into  the  master 
of  the  elements.  If  he  does  not  yet  liariiess  the  electric  fluid  to  his 
plow,  his  Iwat,  his  wagon,  and  make  the  most  docile  and  useful  of  his 
servants,  it  is  because  he  is  still  but  little  advanced  from  barbjirism. 
Essentially,  the  lightning  garnered  in  a  sunnner  cloud  should  be  as 
much  at  his  command,  and  as  subservient  to  his  needs,  as  the  water 
that  refreshes  his  thirsty  fields  and  starts  his  hitherto  lifeless  wheels. 

Only  good  farming  pays.  He  who  sows  or  plants  without  i*eason- 
able  assurance  of  good  crops  annually,  might  better  earn  wages  of 
some  capable  neighbor  than  work  for  so  poor  a  paymaster  as  he  is 
certain  to  prove  himself.  The  good  farmer  is  proved  such  by  the  I 
steiidy  appreciation  of  his  crops.  Any  one  may  reap  an  ample  harvest 
from  a  fertile,  virgin  soil ;  the  good  farmer  alone  grows  good  crops  at 
first,  and  better  and  better  ever  afterward. 

It  is  far  easier  to  maintain  the  productive  capacity  of  a  farm  than  to 
restore  it.  To  exhaust  its  fecundity,  and  then  attempt  its  restoration 
by  buying  costly  commercial  fertilizers,  is  wasteful  and  irrational. 
The  gfKxl  farmer  sells  mainly  such  products  as  are  least  exhaustive. 
Necessity  may  constrain  him,  for  the  fii-st  year  or  two,  to  sell  grain,  or 
even  hay ;  but  he  will  soon  send  oft'  his  surplus  mainly  in  the  form  of 
cotton,  or  wool,  or  meat,  or  butter  and  cheese,  or  something  else  that 
returns  to  the  soil  nearly  all  that  is  taken  from  it.  A  bank  account 
daily  dniwn  upon,  while  nothing  is  deposited  to  its  credit,  must  soon 
respond,  "  No  funds  "  :  so  with  a  faim  similarly  treated. 

Wisdom  is  never  dear,  provided  the  article  be  genuine.  I  have 
known  farmers  who  toiled  constantly  from  daybreak  to  dark,  yet  died 
poor,  Ijecause,  through  ignorance,  they  wrought  to  disadvantage.  If 
every  farmer  would  devote  two  hours  of  each  day  to  reading  and 
reflection,  there  wouhl  be  fewer  failures  v.\  farming  than  there  are. 
The  best  investment  a  farmer  can  make  for  his  children  is  that  which 
surrounds  their  youth  with  the  rational  delights  of  a  beauteous,  at- 
tractive home.  The  dwelling  may  be  small  and  rude,  yet  a  few  flow- 
ers will  embellish,  as  choice  fniit-trees  will  enrich  and  gladden  it; 
while  grass  and  shade  are  within  the  rt^ch  of  the  humblest.  Hardly 
any  lalwr  done  on  a  farm  is  so  profitable  as  that  which  makes  the 
wife  and  children  fond  and  proud  of  their  home. 

A  good,  practical  education,  including  a  good  trade,  is  a  better 
outfit  for  a  youth  than  a  grand  estate  with  the  drawliack  of  an  empty 
niii.d.     Many  parents  have  slaved  and  pinched  to  leave  their  children 


256  CATHCAET^S    LITERARY    READER. 

rich,  when  half  the  sum  thus  layished  would  have  profited  them  far 
more  had  it  been  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of  their  minds,  the  en- 
larj^ement  of  their  capacity  to  think,  observe,  and  work.  The  one 
structure  that  no  neighborhood  can  afford  to  do  without  is  the 
school-house. 

A  small  library  of  wcU-sclectctl  books  in  his  home  has  saved  many 
a  youth  from  wandering  into  the  baleful  ways  of  the  prodigal  sou. 
Where  paternal  strictness  and  severity  would  have  bred  nothing  but 
dislike  and  a  fixed  resolve  to  abscond  at  the  first  opportunity,  good 
books  and  pleasant  surroundings  have  weaned  many  a  youth  from  his 
first  wild  impulse  to  go  to  sea  or  cross  the  continent,  and  made  him 
a  docile,  contented,  obedient,  happy  lingerer  by  the  parental  fireside. 
In  a  family,  however  rich  or  poor,  no  other  good  is  so  cheap  or  so 
precious  as  thoughtful,  watchful  love. 

Most  men  are  born  poor,  but  no  man,  who  has  average  capacities 
and  tolemble  luck,  need  remain  so.  And  the  farmer's  cidling,  thougli 
proffering  no  sudden  leaps,  no  ready  short-cuts  to  opulence,  is  the 
surest  of  all  ways  from  poverty  and  want  to  comfort  and  independence. 
Other  men  must  climb;  the  temperate,  frugal,  diligent,  provident 
farmer  may  grow  into  competence  and  every  external  accessory  to 
happiness.  Each  year  of  his  devotion  to  his  homestead  may  find  it 
more  valuable,  more  attractive  than  the  last,  and  leave  it  better  still. 

There  are  discoveries  in  natural  science  and  improvements  in  me- 
chanics which  conduce  to  the  efficiency  of  agriculture ;  but  the  prin- 
ciples which  underlie  this  first  of  arts  are  old  as  agriculture  itst.*lf. 
Greek  and  Roman  sages  made  observations  so  acute  and  practical 
that  the  farmers  of  to-day  may  ponder  them  with  profit,  while  modern 
literature  is  padded  with  essays  on  farming  not  worth  the  paper  they 
have  spoiled.  And  yet  the  generation  whereof  I  am  part  lias  wit- 
nessed great  strides  in  your  vocation,  while  the  generation  preparing 
to  take  our  places  will  doubtless  witness  still  greater.  I  bid  you  hold 
fast  to  the  good,  with  minds  receptive  of  and  eager  for  the  better,  and 
rejoice  in  your  knowledge  that  there  is  no  nobler  pursuit  and  no 
more  inviting  soil  than  those  which  you  proudly  call  your  own. 


THACKERAY.  267 

THACKERAY. 

1811-1863. 

William  Makkpeacb  Tiiackehay,  one  of  the  great  writer*  of  fiction  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  was  bum  in  Calcutta  in  1811,  but  waa  sent  to  England  while  a  child,  and  educated  lu 
the  CharterbuuM  School,  which  he  has  inuaurtalizcd  in  The  Nru-comft,  and  at  Cambridge  Uni> 
vrrvitv.  On  the  death  of  his  parenta  he  found  himself  in  possessiun  of  a  handsome  fortune ; 
but  it  aoon  vanished,  and  he  was  compelled  to  vaxn  a  subsistence.  He  dallied  with  Law, 
courted  Art  with  gn-ater  earnestness,  and  finally  —  a  resolution  for  which  th.;  lovers  of  high 
fiction  will  never  cease  to  be  grateful  —.resolved  to  devote  himself  to  Literature.  His  first  essay 
in  letter*  was  in  the  department  of  journalism ;  he  wrote  for  the  Times,  The  New  Moathly 
MagMinc,  anil  Punch,  to  which  latter  pt-riodical  be  contribut«;d  the  inimitable  Snob  Papers, 
Jeamej's  Diary,  etc.  His  first  volume.  The  Paris  Sketch-Book,  was  published  in  1840,  and  was 
followed  daring  the  next  seven  years  by  several  collections  of  essays,  sketches,  etc.  In  l&W  ap- 
peared his  tirst  novel.  Vanity  Fair,  a  work  timt  deserves  rank  among  the  masterpieci's  of  English 
fictioa.  Two  years  later  The  History  of  Pett  lenHts  was  given  to  the  world,  which,  if  it  did  not 
ealiuiee  Uu  author's  reputation,  continued  his  title  to  a  high  place  among  English  novelists. 
The  History  of  Henry  EsmonJ,  The  Virginians,  The  Netoeomus,  appeared  at  short  intervals,  the 
latter,  which  was  issued  in  1855,  being  pronounced  by  high  literary  authority  his  masterpiece. 
Lomet  the  WiJowtr  (18C1)  and  The  AJtentnres  of  Philip  (1862)  mark  the  decay  of  the  author's 
po\«crs.  At  his  death  in  1863  he  left  unfinished  a  novel  called  Denis  Dutal.  The  Four 
(,''■., njrs,  lectures  tirsidelix-crcd  in  the  principal  American  cities,  were  pulilisth.-d  in  Iwok  form  in 
lHf,(i.  It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  while  Thackcmy's  writings  were  comparatively  neglected  in 
England,  they  enjoyed  an  extensive  popularity  in  the  United  States,  where  they  arc  still  read 
with  eagerness  and  delight  by  all  who  look  beneath  the  surface  of  novels  into  the  soul  that 
animates  tliem.  It  is  impossible  to  do  justice  to  the  characteristics  of  Thackeray  as  a  writer  in 
the  limits  uf  thu  notice  ;  but  two  or  three  of  them  may  be  briefly  mentioned.  He  was  a  cynic, 
tliuu-^h  a  kiudly  one:  he  was  a  keen  student  of  human  nature,  quick  to  recognize  and  to  de- 
nouiK-t;  its  weaknesses ;  yet  he  apparently  found  his  deepest  pleasure  in  depicting  its  iovelj 
features  and  recording  its  noblest  manifestations.  The  character  of  Colonel  Newcomc4s,  we 
tbinlv,  unsurpassed,  if  equaled,  as  a  type  of  true  manhood ;  its  pathos  is  indescribable,  and  the 
miniDry  of  il  liiv^i-rs  in  the  reader's  mind,  softening  and  refining.  Thackeray's  humor  waa 
nimblf  rather  tlian  rich;  but  it  is  not,  though  commonly  held  to  be,  a  very  important  component 
of  his  intellectual  strength.  He  was  a  reformer,  who  exposctl  and  denounced  social  wrongs,  not 
with  rude  force,  but  with  polisiied  satire.  His  mastery  of  English  was  wonderful ;  in  the  purity 
and  vigor  of  his  language  he  waa  unequaled  by  any  writer  of  his  time.  The  first  extnct  is  firom 
Tkt  Fiaur  George* ;  the  others  arc  from  Pendennis. 

GEOBOE  THE  THFRD.* 

We  have  to  glance  over  sixty  years  in  as  many  minutes.  To  read 
the  mere  catalogue  of  characters  who  figured  during  that  long  period, 
would  occupy  our  allotted  time,  and  we  should  have  all  text  and  no 
sLTinon.  England  has  to  undergo  the  revolt  of  the  American  colo- 
niis ,  to  submit  to  defciit  and  separation  ;  to  shake  under  the  volcano 

•  Gcr.r,re  the  Third  waa  king  of  England  during  our  Revolutionary  War.  He  waa  bom  in 
ITW,  a»<-inded  (he  throne  in  1701),  and  reigned  for  sixty  years.     He  becMne  iasane  in  1810.  and 

dull  in  1H.»().     His  weaknesses  are  most  mercilessly  criticised  by  Thackeray  in  h'-  ' -• -n 

the  Four  Ceorges,  as  will  be  seen  from  the  extract 


258  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

of  the  French  Revolution ;  to  grapple  and  fight  for  the  life  with  her 
gigantic  enemy  Napoleon  ;  to  gasp  and  rally  after  that  tremendous 
struggle.  The  old  society,  with  its  courtly  splendors,  has  to  pass 
away  ;  generations  of  statesmen  to  rise  and  disappear ;  Pitt  to  follow 
Chatham  to  the  tomb ;  the  memory  of  Roiiney  anil  Wolfe  to  be  super- 
seded by  Nelson's  and  Wellington's  glory  ;  the  old  poets  who  unite 
us  to  Queen  Anne's  time  to  sink  into  their  graves ;  Johnson  to  die, 
and  Seott  and  Byron  to  arise,  Garrick  to  delight  the  world  with  his 
dazzling  dramatic  genius,  and  Kean  to  leap  on  the  stage  and  take 
possession  of  the  astonished  theater.  Steam  has  to  be  invented ; 
kings  to  be  beheaded,  banished,  deposed,  restored ;  Napoleon  to  be 
but  an  episode,  and  Greorge  III.  is  to  be  alive  through  all  these  varied 
changes,  to  accompany  his  people  through  all  these  revolutions  of 
thought,  government,  society,  —  to  survive  out  of  the  old  world  into 
ours. 

His  mother's  bigotry  and  hatred  George  inherited  with  the  cour- 
ageous obstinacy  of  his  own  race ;  but  he  was  a  firm  believer  where 
his  fathers  had  been  free-thinkers,  and  a  true  and  fond  supporter  of 
the  Church,  of  which  he  was  the  titular  defender.  Like  other  dull 
men,  the  king  was  all  his  life  suspicious  of  superior  people.  He 
did  not  like  Fox  ;  he  did  not  like  Reynolds ;  he  did  not  like  Nelson, 
Chatham,  Burke:  he  was  testy  at  the  idea  of  all  innovations,  and 
suspicious  of  all  innovators.  He  loved  mediocrities ;  Benjamin  West 
was  his  favorite  painter ;  Beattie  was  his  poet.  The  king  lamented, 
not  without  pathos,  in  his  after  life,  that  his  education  had  been  ne«r- 
lected.  He  was  a  dull  lad,  brought  up  by  narrow-minded  peoph . 
The  cleverest  tutors  in  the  world  could  have  done  little  probably 
to  expand  that  small  intellect,  though  they  might  have  improved  his 
tastes  and  taught  his  perceptions  some  generosity. 

Greorge  married  the  Princess  Charlotte  of  Mecklenburg  Strelitz,  and 
for  years  they  led  the  happiest,  simplest  lives,  sure,  ever  led  by  mar- 
ried couple.  It  is  said  the  king  winced  when  he  first  saw  his 
homely  little  bride ;  but,  however  that  may  be,  he  was  a  true  and 
faithful  husband  to  her,  as  she  was  a  faithful  and  loving  wife.  Tliey 
had  the  simplest  pleasures,  —  the  very  mildest  and  simplest,  — little 
country  dances,  to  which  a  dozen  couple  were  invited,  and  where  the 
honest  king  would  stand  up  and  dance  for  three  hours  at  a  time  to  one 
tune ;  after  which  delicious  excitement  they  would  go  to  bed  without 
any  supper  (the  Court  people  grumbling   sadly  at  that   absence  of 


THACKERAY.  259 

supper),  and  get  up  quite  early  the  next  morning,  and  perhaps  the 
next  night  have  another  dance;  or  the  queen  wouUl  play  on  the 
spinnet,  —  she  played  pretty  well,  Haydn  said ;  or  the  king  would 
read  to  her  a  paper  out  of  the  S^jectator,  or  perhaps  one  of  Ogden's 
sermons.     O  Arcadia !  what  a  life  it  must  have  been  ! 

The  theater  was  always  his  delight.  His  bishops  and  clergy  used 
to  attend  it,  thinking  it  no  shame  to  appear  where  that  good  man  was 
seen.  He  is  said  not  to  have  cared  for  Shakespeare  or  tragedy  much; 
farces  and  pantomimes  were  his  joy ;  and  especially  when  clown  swal- 
lowed a  carrot  or  a  string  of  sausages,  he  would  laugh  so  outrageously 
that  the  lovely  princess  by  his  side  would  have  to  say,  "  My  gracious 
monarch,  do  compose  yourself."  But  he  coutinued  to  laugh,  and  at 
the  very  smallest  farces,  as  long  as  his  poor  wits  were  left  him. 

"  George,  be  a  king !  "  were  the  words  which  his  mother  was  for- 
evir  croaking  in  the  ears  of  her  son  ;  and  a  king  the  simple,  stubborn, 
affectionate,  bigoted  man  tried  to  be. 

He  did  his  Wst,  —  he  worked  according  to'his  lights  :  what  virtue 
he  knew,  he  tried  to  practice  ;  what  knowledge  he  could  master,  he 
strove  to  acquire.  But,  as  one  thinks  of  an  office  almost  divine, 
performed  by  any  mortal  man,  —  of  atiy  single  being  pretending  to 
control  the  thoughts,  to  direct  the  faith,  to  order  implicit  obedience 
of  brother  millions  ;  to  compel  them  into  war  at  his  offense  or  quar- 
rel ;  to  command,  "  In  this  way  you  shall  trade,  in  this  way  you  shall 
think;  these  neighbors  shall  l)c  your  allies,  wiiom  you  shall  help, — 
these  others  your  enemies,  whom  you  shall  slay  at  my  orders  ;  in 
this  way  you  shall  worship  God  " ;  —  who  can  wonder  that,  when 
such  a  man  as  George  took  such  an  office  on  himself,  punishment  and 
humiliation  should  fall  upon  people  and  chief? 

Yet  there  is  something  grand  about  his  courage.  The  battle  of  the 
king  with  his  aristocracy  remains  yet  to  be  told  by  the  historian  who 
shall  view  the  reign  of  G<*orge  more  justly  than  the  tninipeiy  pane- 
gyrists who  wrote  immediately  after  his  decease.  It  was  he,  with  the 
people  to  back  him,  that  made  the  war  with  America  ;  it  was  he  and 
the  people  who  refused  justice  to  the  Roman  Catholics  ;  and  on  both 
questions  he  beat  the  patricians.  He  bribed,  he  bullied,  he  darkly 
dissembled  on  occasion ;  he  exercised  a  slipperj-  perseverance,  and  a 
vindictive  resolution,  which  one  almost  admires  as  one  thinks  his 
character  over.  His  courage  was  never  to  be  beat.  It  trampled  North 
underfoot ;  it  bent  the  stiff  neck  of  the  younger  Pitt ;  even  his  illness 


260 

never  conquered  that  indomitable  spirit.  As  soon  as  his  brain  was 
clear,  it  resumed  the  scheme,  only  laid  aside  when  his  reason  left  him : 
as  soon  as  his  hands  were  out  of  the  strait-waistcoat,  they  took  up  the 
pen  and  the  plan  which  had  ewy^a'fed  him  up  to  the  moment  of  his 
malady.  I  believe,  it  is  by  persons  belieyinj?  themselves  in  the  right, 
that  nine  tenths  of  the  tyranny  of  this  world  has  been  perpetrated. 
Arguing  on  that  convenient  premise,  the  Bey  of  Algiers  would  cut  oflF 
twenty  heads  of  a  morning  ;  Father  Dominic  would  burn  a  score  of 
Jews  in  the  presence  of  the  Most  Catholic  King,  and  the  Archbishops 
of  Toledo  and  Salanmnca  sing  Amen.  Protestants  were  roasted, 
Jesuits  hung  and  quartered  at  Smithfield,  and  witches  bunied  at 
Salem  ;  and  all  by  worthy  p<^ople,  who  believed  they  had  the  best 
authority  for  their  actions.  And  so  with  respect  to  old  Greorge,  even 
Americans,  whom  he  hated  and  who  conquered  him,  may  give  him 
cH'dit  for  having  quite  honest  reasons  for  oppressing  them. 

Of  little  comfort  were  the  king's  sons  to  the  king.  But  the  pretty 
Amelia  was  his  darling';  and  the  little  maiden,  prattling  and  smiling 
in  the  fond  arms  of  that  old  father,  is  a  sweet  image  to  look  on. 

From  November,  1810,  George  III.  ceased  to  reign.  All  the  world 
knows  the  story  of  his  malady ;  all  history  presents  no  sadder  figure 
than  that  of  the  old  man,  blind  and  deprived  of  reason,  wandering 
through  the  rooms  of  his  palace,  addressing  imaginary  parliaments, 
reviewing  fancied  troops,  holding  ghostly  courts.  I  have  seen  his 
picture  as  it  was  taken  at  this  time,  hajiging  in  the  apartment  of  his 
daughter,  the  Landgravine  of  Hesse  Homburg,  —  amidst  books  and 
Windsor  furniture,  ami  a  hundred  fond  reminiscences  of  her  English 
home.  The  poor  old  father  is  represented  in  a  purple  gown,  his 
snowy  l)eard  falling  over  his  breast,  —  the  star  of  his  famous  Order 
still  idly  shining  on  it.  He  was  not  only  sightless, — he  became 
utterly  deaf.  All  light,  all  reason,  all  sound  of  human  voices,  all  the 
pleasures  of  this  world  of  God,  were  t<iken  from  him.  Some  slight 
lucid  moments  he  had  ;  in  one  of  which,  the  queen,  desiring  to  see 
him,  entered  the  room,  and  found  him  singing  a  hymn,  and  accom- 
panying himself  at  the  harpsichord.  When  he  had  finished,  he  knelt 
down  and  prayed  aloud  for  her,  and  then  for  his  family,  and  then  for 
the  nation,  concluding  with  a  prayer  for  himself,  that  it  might  please 
God  to  avert  his  heavy  calamity  from  him,  but  if  not,  to  give  him  res- 
ignation to  submit.  He  then  burst  into  tears,  and  his  reason  again 
fle/1. 


THACKERAY.  261 

What  preacher  need  moralize  on  this  story ;  what  words  save  the 
simplest  are  requisite  to  tell  it  ?  It  is  too  terrible  for  tears.  The 
thought  of  sucli  a  misery  smites  me  down  in  submission  before  the 
Ruler  of  kiuji^s  and  men,  the  Monarch  Supreme  over  empires  and 
republics,  the  inscrutable  Dispenser  of  life,  death,  liappiness,  victory. 
"  O  brothers,"  I  said  to  those  who  heard  me  first  in  America,  —  "  O 
brothers !  speaking  the  same  dear  mother  tongue,  —  O  conu'ades  ! 
enemies  no  more,  let  us  take  a  mournful  hand  together  as  we  stand  by 
this  royal  corpse,  and  call  a  truce  to  battle !  Low  he  lies  to  whom 
the  proudest  used  to  kneel  once;,  and  who  was  cast  lower  than  the 
poorest ;  dead,  whom  millions  prayed  for  in  vain.  Driven  off  his 
throne ;  buffeted  by  rude  hands ;  with  his  children  in  revolt ;  the 
darling  of  his  old  age  killed  before  him  untimely  ;  our  Lear  hangs 
over  her  breatldess  lips  and  cries,  *  Cordelia,  Cordelia,  stay  a  little !  * 

•  Vex  not  hi«  ghost  —  oh  !  let  him  pass  —  he  hates  him 
That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  tough  world 
Stretch  him  out  longer  1 ' 

Hush  !  Strife  and  Quarrel,  over  the  solemn  grave !  Sound,  Trum- 
pets, a  mournful  march.  Fall,  Dark  Curtain,  upon  his  pageant,  his 
pride,  his  grief,  his  awful  tragedy  !  " 

THE  MAJOR'S  ADVICfE  TO  HIS  NEPHEW. 

Like  a  wary  and  patient  man  of  the  world.  Major  Pendennis  did 
not  press  poor  Pen  any  farther  for  the  moment,  but  hoped  the  best 
from  time,  and  that  the  young  fellow's  eyes  would  be  opened  before 
long  to  see  the  absurdity  of  which  he  was  guilty.  And  having  found 
out  how  keen  the  boy's  point  of  honor  was,  he  worked  kindly  upon 
that  kindly  feeling  with  great  skill,  discoursing  him  over  their  wine 
after  dinner,  and  pointing  out  to  Pen  the  necessity  of  a  perfect  up- 
rightness and  openness  in  all  his  dealings,  and  entreating  that  his 
communications  with  his  interesting  young  friend  (as  the  Major 
politely  called  Miss  Fotheringay)  should  be  carried  on  with  the 
knowletlge,  if  not  approlmtion,  of  Mrs.  Pendennis.  "  After  all,  Pen," 
the  Major  said,  with  a  convenient  frankness  that  did  not  displease 
the  boy,  whilst  it  advanced  the  interests  of  the  negotiator,  "you 
must  bear  in  mind  that  you  are  throwing  yourself  away.  Your 
mother  may  submit  to  your  marriage  as  she  would  to  anything  else 
you  desired,  if  you  did  but  cry  long  enough  for  it :  but  be  sure  of 


262 

this,  that  it  can  never  please  her.  You  take  a  yoiint(  woman  off  the 
boards  of  a  countrv  thciitcr  and  prefer  her,  for  siieh  is  the  case,  to  one 
of  the  liiic-t  ladle-  in  |jiud:i'.d.  And  your  nioiln  r  wid  suhinit  to 
your  choice,  but  you  can't  suppose  tliat  she  will  be  happy  under  it. 

"  I  have  often  fancies  that  my  sister  had  it  in  her  eye  to  make  a  mar- 
riage between  you  and  that  little  w.;rd  of  Iim-  V\ni\i,  Laura, — 
what's  her  name?  And  1  always  determined  n*  do  ni\  small  en- 
deavor to  jinvcnt  any  such  match.  The  child  has  hut  two  thou- 
sand pounds,  I  am  iriven  to  understand.  It  is  only  with  the  utmost 
economy  and  care  ihat  my  sister  can  provide  for  the  decent  main- 
tenance of  her  h()n>e,  and  for  your  appearance  and  tduiMiion  as  a 
gentleman  :  and  1  don't  care  to  own  to  you  that  1  had  otiur  and 
much  liiiriier  views  for  you.  Witli  your  name  and  birth,  sir, 
—  with  your  talents,  uhich  I  suppose  are  respectable,  with  the 
friends  whom  I  have  the  honor  to  possess,  I  could  have  placed 
you  in  an  (vicllent  position, — a  remarkable  position  for  a  young 
man  of  sm  li  t  xiceding  small  means,  and  had  hoped  to  see  you,  at 
least,  try  to  restore  the  honors  of  our  name.  Your  mother's  softness 
stopped  one  prospect,  or  you  mi-ht  have  l)een  a  general  like  our  gal- 
lant ancestor  who  fouudit  at  K amillies  and  Malplaquet.  1  had  another 
plan  in  view  :  my  excellent  and  kind  friend.  Lord  Bagwig,  who  is 
very  well  disposed  towards  me,  would,  1  have  little  doubt,  have  attached 
you  to  his  mission  at  Pumpernickel,  and  you  might  have  advanced  in 
the  diplomatic  service.  But,  pardon  me  for  recurring  to  the  subject ; 
how  is  a  man  to  serve  a  young  gentleman  of  eighteen,  who  proposes 
to  marry  a  lady  of  tliirty.  whom  he  has  selected  from  a  booth  in  a 
fair?  —  wrll.  not  a  tair,  —  barn.  Tluit  jirot'c-^ioii  at  once  is  closed 
to  you.  The  public  service  is  closed  to  you.  Society  is  closed  to 
you.  You  see,  my  good  friend,  to  what  you  briuGr  yourself.  You 
may  get  on  at  the  bar,  to  be  sure,  when^  I  am  Lnv(  n  to  understand 
that  gentlemen  of  merit  occasionally  marry  out  of  their  kitchens ;  but 
in  no  other  profession.  Or  you  may  come  and  live  down  here  — 
down  here,  dear  Pen,  forever  I  "'  (said  the  ^lajor,  with  a  dreary  sliruLT, 
as  he  thouu-ht  with  inexpres-;l)!e  loudness  of  Pall  M.dl)  '•  where  your 
mother  wid  receive  the  ^Irs.  Arthur  that  is  to  be,  with  perfect  kind- 
ness; where  the  o:ood  people  of  the  county  won't  visit  you;  and 
where,  my  dear  sir,  I  shall  be  shy  of  visiting  you  myself,  for  I  'm  a 
plain-spoken  man,  and  1  own  to  you  that  I  like  to  live  with  gentlemen 
for  my  companions  ;  where  you  will  have  to  live,  with  nim-and-water 


THACKERAY.  263 

drinking  gentlemen -farmers,  and  drag  through  your  life  the  young 
hu.sl)and  of  an  old  woman,  who,  if  she  does  n't  quarrel  with  your 
mother,  will  at  least  cost  that  lady  her  position  in  society,  and  drag 
her  down  into  that  dubious  caste  into  which  you  must  inevitably  fall. 
It  is  no  affair  of  mine,  my  good  sir.  I  am  not  angry.  Your  down- 
fdl  will  not  hurt  me  farther  than  that  it  will  extinguish  the  hopes  I 
ha<l  of  seeing  my  family  once  more  taking  its  place  in  the  world.  It 
is  only  your  mother  and  yourself  that  will  he  ruined.  And  I  pity 
you  both  from  my  soul.  Pass  the  claret :  it  is  some  I  sent  to  your 
poor  father ;  I  remember  I  bouj^ht  it  at  poor  Lord  Levant's  sale. 
But  of  course,"  added  the  Major,  smacking  the  wine,  "  having  en- 
gaged yourself,  you  will  do  what  becomes  you  as  a  man  of  honor, 
however  fatal  your  promise  may  be.  However,  promise  us  on  our 
side,  my  boy,  what  I  set  out  by  entreating  you  to  grant,  —  that  there 
shall  be  nothing  clandestine,  that  you  will  pursue  your  studies,  that 
you  will  only  visit  your  interesting  friend  at  proper  intervals.  Do 
you  write  to  her  much  ?  " 

Pen  blushed  and  said,  "  Why,  yes,  he  had  written." 

"  I  suppose  verses,  eh !  as  well  as  prose  ?  I  was  a  dab  at  verses 
myself.  I  recollect  when  I  first  joined,  I  used  to  write  verses  for 
the  fellows  in  the  regiment ;  and  did  some  pretty  things  in  that  way. 
I  was  talking  to  my  old  friend  General  Hobbler  about  some  lines  I 
dashed  off  for  him  in  the  year  1806,  when  we  were  at  the  Cape,  and. 
Gad,  he  remembered  every  line  of  them  still ;  for  he  'd  used  'em  so 
often,  the  old  rogue,  and  had  actually  tried  'em  on  Mrs.  Hobbler,  sir, 
who  brought  him  sixty  thousand  pounds.  I  suppose  you  've  tried 
verses,  eh,  Pen  ?  " 

Pen  blushed  again,  and  said,  "  Wliy,  yes,  he  had  ^^Titten  verses." 

"  And  does  the  fair  one  respond  in  poetry  or  prose?"  asked  the 
Major,  eying  his  nephew  with  the  queerest  expression,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "  O  Moses  and  Green  Spectacles  !  what  a  fool  the  boy  is." 

Pen  blushed  again.  She  had  written,  but  not  in  verse,  the  young 
lover  owned,  and  he  gave  his  breast-pocket  the  benefit  of  a  squeeze 
with  his  left  arm,  which  the  Major  remarked,  according  to  his  wont. 

"  You  have  got  the  letters  there,  I  see,"  said  the  old  campaigner, 
nodding  at  Pen,  and  pointing  to  his  own  chest  (which  was  manfully 
wadcU-d  with  cotton  by  Mr.  Stultz).  "  You  know  you  have.  I  would 
uivr  twopence  to  see  'em." 

•  Why,"  said  Pen,  twiddling  the  stAlks  of  the  strawberries,  "  I  — 


£64  cathcaet's  literary  reader. 

I,"  but  this  sentence  never  finished ;  for  Pen's  face  was  so  comical 
and  embarraased,  as  the  Major  watched  it,  that  the  elder  could  con- 
tain his  jj^avity  no  longer,  and  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  in  whirli 
chorus  Pen  himself  was  obliged  to  join  after  a  minute  :  when  he 
broke  out  fairly  into  a  guftaw. 

It  sent  them  with  great  good-humor  into  Mrs.  Pendennis*8  draw- 
ing-room. She  was  pleased  to  hear  them  laughing  in  the  hall  as  they 
crossed  it. 

"  You  sly  rascal !  '*  said  the  Major,  putting  his  arm  gayly  on  Pen's 
shoulder,  and  giving  a  playful  push  at  the  boy's  bi*east-pocket.  He 
felt  the  papers  crackling  there  sure  enough.  The  young  fellow  was 
delighted  —  conceited  —  triumphant — and  in  one  word,  a  spooney. 

The  pair  came  to  the  tea-table  in  the  highest  spirits.  The  Major's 
politeness  was  beyond  expression.  He  had  never  tasted  such  good  tea, 
and  such  bread  was  oidy  to  l)e  had  in  the  country.  He  asked  Mrs.  Pen- 
dennis  for  one  of  her  charming  songs.  He  then  made  Pen  sing,  and 
was  delighted  and  astonished  at  the  beauty  of  the  boy's  voice ;  he  made 
his  nephew  fetch  his  maps  and  drawings,  and  praised  them  as  really  re- 
markable works  of  talent  in  a  yoiuig  fellow  :  he  complimented  him  on 
his  French  pronunciation :  he  flattered  the  simple  boy  as  adroitly  as 
ever  lover  flattered  a  mistress  :  and  when  bedtime  came,  mother  and 
son  went  to  their  several  rooms  perfectly  enchanted  with  the  kind  Major. 

When  they  had  reached  those  apartments,  I  suppose  Helen  took  to 
her  knees  as  usual ;  and  Pen  read  over  his  letters  before  going  to  bed  : 
just  as  if  he  did  n't  know  every  word  of  them  by  heart  already.  In 
truth  there  were  but  three  of  those  documents ;  and  to  learn  their 
contents  required  no  great  eftbrt  of  memory. 

In  No.  1  Miss  Fotheringay  presents  grateful  compliments  to  ^Ir. 
Pendennis,  and  in  her  papa's  name  and  her  own  begs  to  thank  him 
for  his  most  beautiful  presents.  They  will  always  be  kept  carefully ; 
and  Miss  F.  and  Captain  C.  will  never  forget  the  delightful  evening 
which  they  passed  on  Tuesday  last. 

No.  2  said  —  Dear  Sir,  we  shall  have  a  small  quiet  party  of  social 
friends  at  our  humble  board,  next  Tuesday  evening,  at  an  early  tea, 
when  I  shall  we:\r  the  beautiful  scarf  which,  with  its  accompamjiug  de- 
lightful verses,  I  shall  ever,  ever  cherish :  and  papa  bids  me  say  how 
happy  he  will  be  if  you  will  join  "  the  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow 
of  soul "  in  our  festice  little  party,  as  I  am  sure  will  be  your  truly 

grateful 

Emily  Fotheringay. 


THACKEEAY.  265 

No.  3  was  somewhat  more  confidential,  and  showed  that  matters 
had  proceeded  rather  fur.  You  were  odious  yesterday  night,  the  letter 
said.  Why  did  you  not  come  to  the  stage-door?  Papa  could  not 
escort  me  on  account  of  his  eye ;  he  had  an  accident,  and  fell  down 
over  a  loose  carpet  on  the  stair  on  Sunday  night.  I  saw  you  looking 
at  Miss  Diggle  all  night;  and  you  were  so  enchanted  vi'\i\\  Lydia  Lan- 
guish you  scarcely  once  looked  at  Julia.  I  could  have  crushed  Bing- 
ley,  I  was  so  angry.     1  play  Ella  Rosenberg  on  Friday  :  will  you  come 

then  ?     Miss  Biggie  performs  —  ever  your 

E.  F. 

These  three  letters  Mr.  Pen  used  to  read  at  intervals,  during  the 
day  and  night,  and  embrace  with  that  delight  and  fervor  which  such 
beautiful  compositions  surely  warranted.  A  thousand  times  at  least 
he  had  kissed  fondly  the  musky  satin  paper,  made  sacred  to  him  by 
the  hand  of  Emily  Fotheringay.  This  was  all  he  had  in  return  for 
his  passion  an<l  flames,  his  vows  and  protests,  his  rhymes  and  similes, 
his  wakeful  nights  and  endless  thoughts,  his  fondness,  fears,  and  folly. 
The  young  wiseacre  had  pledged  away  his  all  for  this :  signed  his 
name  to  endless  promissory-notes,  conferring  his  heart  upon  the 
bearer :  bound  himself  for  life,  and  got  Imck  twopence  as  an  equiva- 
lent. For  Miss  ('ostigan  was  a  young  lady  of  such  perfect  good  eon- 
duct  and  self-command,  that  she  never  would  have  thought  of  giving 
more,  and  reserved  the  treasures  of  her  affection  until  she  could  trans- 
fer them  lawfully  at  church. 

Howbeit,  Mr.  Pen  was  content  with  what  tokens  of  regard  he  had 
got,  and  mumbled  over  his  three  letters  in  a  rapture  of  high  spirits, 
and  went  to  sleep  delighted  with  his  kind  old  imcle  from  London, 
who  must  evidently  yield  to  his  wishes  in  time ;  and,  in  a  word,  a 
preposterous  state  of  contentment  with  himself  and  all  the  world.* 

*  It  may  be  remarked  that  Mr.  Pen  did  not  marry  If  iw  Fotheringay,  and  that  Captain  Cos- 

tigau,  her  father,  and  Majn-  !' ' — ■;  rame  near  having  u  duel  on  the  sulijret.     For  a  full  and 

interesting  account  of  TO' I!  s  triali  and  trilmlations  in  this  matter,  and  his  happy 

iaana  tlierefrom,  together  ^t  rmiag^y  dcacribed  record  of  hia  life  after  this  episode,  vuu 

must  read  Femdauu*^  one  of  the  heat  uf  Mr.  Thackeray's  stories. 


12 


\ 


266  CATHCAET^S    LITERARY    READER. 

SUMNER. 
I8II-1874. 

Chaslcs  SfiCTER,  one  of  the  most  prominent  actors  in  the  public  affairs  of  the  United  States 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  was  bom  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  in  January,  1811.  Graduating  at 
Harvard  College  in  ItiH),  he  studied  law  under  the  direction  of  Judge  Story,  and  began  practice 
in  1834.  In  1^37  he  went  abroad  and  mingled  in  the  most  cultivated  society  in  England  and  on 
tlie  Continent  Returning  to  Boston,  after  an  absence  of  three  years,  he  resumed  his  profession 
and  his  studies.  In  l8to,  being  invited  by  the  city  government  to  deliver  a  Fourth  of  July  Ora- 
tion, he  spoke  on  The  True  Grandeur  of  Aationt  with  such  eloquence  and  force  as  at  once 
gave  him  high  rank  as  an  orator.  Made  conspicuous  by  this  success,  he  naturally  entered  into 
political  associations,  and  became  an  active  member  of  the  Free  Soil  party.  By  its  aid,  five  years 
later,  in  1850,  he  was  elected  to  the  seat  in  the  United  States  Senate  made  vacant  by  Mr. 
Webstar's  appointment  to  be  Secretary  of  Sute.  On  his  entrance  into  that  body  Mr.  Sumner 
declared  himself  the  uncompromising  enemy  of  slavery,  and  never  ceased  his  assaults  upon  that 
institution  until  it  ceased  to  exist  He  was  repeatedly  re-elected  to  the  Senate,  and  had  completed 
his  twenty-third  year  of  honorable  service,  when  he  was  suddenly  stricken  by  aHyina  pecloru,  and 
died  March  11,  1874.  Mr.  Sumner's  efforts  in  literature  were  almost  cxclukively  in  the  depart- 
nunt  of  oratory,  and  the  many  volumes  of  his  published  works  arc  mainly  filled  with  speeches. 
Many  of  these  have  a  place  among  the  masterpieces  of  American  eloquence.  Unlike  most 
American  public  men,  he  was  not  a  politician;  he  held  himself  aloof  from  the  petty  obli- 
gations nnd  entanglements  of  party,  and  maintained  a  lofty  and  unswerving  independence. 
His  integrity  and  purity  of  purpose  were  never  questioned  even  by  tliosc  to  wliom  his  politi- 
cal doctrines  were  most  abhorrent  By  his  profound  intellectual  ability,  his  thorough  and 
elegant  scholarslup,  and  above  all  by  his  high-mindedness  and  ununpearlmblc  probity,  he  com- 
manded the  respect  of  the  whole  country.  His  speeches  were  rather  scholarly  than  statesman- 
like. Though  his  mastery  of  whatever  subjects  he  grappled  with  was  thorough,  and  his  pre- 
sentation of  them  vigorous  and  effective,  there  is  an  excess  of  elaboration,  an  ultra-classicism  in 
all  his  writings  that  never,  or  very  rarely,  accompanies  the  highest  spontaneous  oratory.  As 
specimens  of  careful,  finished  composition,  his  speeches  are  hardly  surpassed  in  the  annals  of 
American  eloquence. 
• 

THE  LAW  OF  HITMAN  PROGBESS. 

The  way  is  now  prepared  to  consider  the  character,  conditions,  and 
limitations  of  this  law,  the  duties  it  enjoins,  and  the  encouragements 
it  affords. 

Let  me  state  the  law  as  I  understand  it.  Man  as  an  individual  is 
c.ipable  of  indefinite  improvement.  Societies  and  nations,  which  are 
but  aggregations  of  men,  and,  finally,  the  Human  Family,  or  collec- 
tively Humanity,  are  capable  of  indefinite  improvement.  And  this  is 
the  destiny  of  man,  of  societies,  of  nations,  and  of  the  Human  Family. 

Restricting  the  proposition  to  the  capacity  for  indefinite  improve- 
ment, I  believe  I  commend  it  to  the  candor  and  intelligence  of  all 
who  have  meditated  upon  this  subject.  And  this  brings  me  to  the 
remarkable  words  of  Leibnitz.  He  boldly  says,  as  we  have  already 
seen,  that  man  seems  able  to  arrive  at  perfection.     Turgot  and  Con- 


8UMNEB.  267 

(lorcet  also  speak  of  his  "  perfectibility,"  —  a  term  adopted  by  recent 
French  writers.  If  by  this  is  incjint  simply  that  man  is  capable  of 
indefinite  improvement,  then  it  will  not  be  qnestioncd.  But  what- 
ever the  heights  of  virtue  and  intelligence  to  which  he  may  attain  in 
future  ages,  who  can  doubt  that  to  his  grander  vision  new  summits 
will  ever  present  themselves,  provoking  him  to  still  grander  aspira- 
tions ?  God  only  is  perfect.  Knowledge  and  goodness,  his  attri- 
butes, are  infinite ;  nor  can  man  hope,  in  any  lapse  of  time,  to  com- 
prehend this  immensity.  In  the  intinitude  of  the  universe,  he  will 
seem,  like  Newton,  with  all  his  acquisitions,  oidy  to  have  gathered  a 
few  pebbles  by  the  seaside.  In  a  similar  strain  Leibnitz  elsewhere 
says  that  the  place  which  God  assigns  to  man  in  space  and  time 
necessarily  limits  the  perfections  he  is  able  to  acquire.  As  in  Ge- 
ometry the  asymptote  constantly  approaches  its  curve,  so  that  the 
distance  between  them  is  constantly  diminishing,  and  yet,  though 
prolongi'd  indefinitely,  they  never  meet,  so,  according  to  him,  arc 
infinite  souls  the  asymptotes  of  God. 

There  arc  revolutions  in  history  seeming  on  a  superficial  view 
inconsistent  with  this  law.  From  early  childhood  attention  is  di- 
rected to  Greece  and  Rome  ;  and  we  are  sometimes  taught  that  these 
two  powers  reached  heights  which  subsequent  nations  cannot  hope  to 
equal,  much  less  to  surpass.  I  would  not  disparage  the  triumphs  of 
the  ancient  mind.  The  eloquence,  the  poetry,  the  art  of  Athens  still 
survive,  and  bear  no  mean  sway  upon  earth.  Bome,  too,  yet  lives 
in  her  jurisprudence,  which,  next  after  Christianity,  has  exerted  a  para- 
mount influence  over  the  laws  of  modern  communities. 

But  exalte<l  as  these  productions  may  l)e,  it  is  impossible  not  to 
perceive  that  something  of  their  present  importance  is  derived  from 
the  early  period  when  they  appeared,  something  from  the  unquestion- 
ing and  high-flown  admiration  of  them  transmitted  through  successive 
generations  until  it  became  a  habit,  and  something  also  from  the  dis- 
position, still  prevalent,  to  elevate  Antiquity  at  the  expense  of  subse- 
quent ages.  Without  undertaking  to  decide  if  the  genius  of  Antiquity, 
as  displayed  by  individuals,  can  justly  claim  supremacy,  it  would  be 
easy  to  show  that  the  ancient  plane  of  civilization  never  reached  onr 
common  level.  The  people  were  ignorant,  vicious,  and  poor,  or  de- 
graded to  abject  slavery,  —  itself  the  sum  of  all  injustic<^  and  all  vice. 
Kven  the  most  illustrious  characters,  whose  names  still  shine  from 
thai  distant  night,  were  little  more  than  splendid  barbarians.     Arcbi- 


iJ68  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

lecture,  sculpture,  paintiiij^,  and  vases  of  exquisite  perfection  attest 
an  appreciation  of  beauty  in  form ;  but  our  masters  in  these  things 
were  strangers  to  the  useful  arts,  as  to  the  comforts  and  virtues  of 
home.  Abounding  in  what  to  us  are  luxuries,  they  had  not  what  to 
us  are  necessaries. 

Without  knowledge  there  can  be  no  sure  Progress.  Vice  and  bar- 
barism are  the  inseparable  companions  of  ignorance.  Nor  is  it  too 
much  to  say,  that,  except  in  rare  instances,  the  highest  virtue  is  at- 
tained only  through  intelligence.  This  is  natural ;  for  to  do  right  we 
must  first  understand  wliat  is  right.  But  the  people  of  Greece  and 
Rome,  even  in  the  brilliant  days  of  Pericles  and  Augustus,  could  not 
arrive  at  this  knowledge.  The  sublime  teachings  of  Plato  and  Socrates 
— calculated  in  many  respects  to  promote  the  best  interests  of  the  race 
—  were  limited  in  influence  to  a  small  company  of  listeners,  or  to  the 
few  who  could  obtain  a  copy  of  the  costly  manuscripts  in  which  they 
were  preserved.  Thus  the  knowledge  and  virtue  acquired  by  indi- 
viduals were  not  diffused  in  their  own  age  or  secured  to  posterity. 

Now,  at  last,  through  an  agency  all  unknown  to  Antiquity,  knowl- 
edge of  every  kind  has  become  genend  and  permanent.  It  can  no 
longer  be  confined  to  a  select  circle.  It  cannot  be  crushed  by  tyranny, 
or  lost  by  neglect.  It  is  immortal  as  the  soul  from  which  it  proceeds. 
This  alone  renders  all  relapse  into  barbarism  impossible,  while  it 
affords  an  unquestionable  distinction  between  ancient  and  modern 
times.  The  Press,  watchful  with  more  than  the  hundred  eyes  of 
Argus,  strong  with  more  than  the  hundred  arms  of  Briareus,  not  only 
guards  all  the  conquests  of  civilization,  but  leads  the  way  to  future 
triumphs.  Through  its  untiring  energies,  the  meditation  of  the 
closet,  or  the  utterance  of  the  human  voice,  which  else  would  die  away 
within  the  precincts  of  a  narrow  room,  is  prolonged  to  the  most  dis- 
tant nations  and  times,  with  winged  words  circling  the  globe.  We 
admire  the  genius  of  Demosthenes,  Sophocles,  Plato,  and  Phidias  ; 
but  the  printing-press  is  a  higher  gift  to  man  than  the  eloquence,  the 
drama,  the  philosophy,  and  the  art  of  Greece. 

THE  LOVE  OF  GLORY. 

The  Love  of  Glory  is  a  motive  of  human  conduct.  But  the  same 
Heavenly  Father  who  endowed  us  with  the  love  of  approbation  has 
placed  in  us  other  sentiments  of  a  higher  order,  more  kindred  to  his 


SUMNER.  269 

own  divine  nature.  These  are  Justice  and  Benevolence,  botli  of 
whiclj,  however  imperfectly  developed  or  ill-directed,  are  elements  of 
every  human  soul.  The  desire  of  Justice,  filling  us  with  the  love 
of  Duty,  is  the  sentiment  which  fits  us  to  receive  and  comprehend  the 
sublime  injunction  of  doing  unto  others  as  we  would  have  them  do  to 
us.  ill  the  prtdomi nance  of  this  sentiment,  enlightened  by  intelligence, 
injustice  becomes  impossible.  The  desire  of  Benevolence  goes  farther. 
It  leads  all  who  are  under  its  influence  to  those  acts  of  kindness,  dis- 
interestedness, humanity,  love  to  neighbor,  which  constitute  the  crown 
of  Christian  character.  Such  sentiments  are  celestial,  godlike  in  their 
office. 

In  determining  proper  motives  of  conduct,  it  is  easy  to  perceive 
that  the  higher  are  more  commendable  than  the  lower,  and  that  even 
an  act  of  Justice  and  Benevolence  loses  something  of  its  charm  when 
known  to  be  inspired  by  the  selfish  desire  of  human  applause.  It 
was  the  gay  poet  of  antiquity  who  said  that  concealed  virtue  differed 
little  from  sepulchered  sluggishness :  — 

"  Paulum  sepnitse  distat  incrtiic 
Celata  virtus." 

But  this  is  a  heathen  sentiment,  alien  to  reason  and  to  truth. 

It  is  hoped  that  men  will  be  honest,  but  from  a  higher  motive  than 
because  honesty  is  the  best  policy.  It  is  hoped  that  they  will  be  hu- 
mane, but  for  a  nobler  cause  than  the  fame  of  humanity. 

The  love  of  approbation  may  properly  animate  the  young,  whose 
minds  have  not  yet  ascended  to  the  appnieiation  of  that  virtue  which 
is  its  own  exceeding  great  reward.  It  may  justly  strengtiien  those  of 
maturer  age  who  are  not  moved  by  the  simple  appeals  of  duty,  unless 
the  smiles  of  mankind  attend  them.  It  were  churlish  not  to  offer 
homage  to  those  acts  by  which  happiness  is  promoted,  even  though 
inspired  by  a  sentiment  of  personal  ambition,  or  by  considerations  of 
policy.  But  such  motives  must  always  detract  from  the  perfect 
beauty  even  of  good  works.     The  Man  of  Ross,  who  was  said  to 

"  Do  Kood  by  aUmlth,  and  blush  to  And  it  Famr," 

was  a  character  of  real  life,  and  the  example  of  his  virtue  may  still  be 
prizwl,  like  the  diamond,  for  its  surpassing  rarity.  It  cannot  1x3  dis- 
guised, however,  that  much  is  gaine<l  where  the  desire  of  praise  acts 
in  conjunction  with  the  higher  sentiments.  If  ambition  l)e  our  lure, 
it  will  be  well  for  mankind  if  it  unite  with  Justice  and  Benevolence. 


270  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

It  may  be  dcinanded  if  we  should  l)e  indifferent  to  the  approbation 
of  men.  Certainly  not.  It  is  a  proper  source  of  gratitieatiou,  and  is 
one  of  the  just  rewards  on  earth.  It  may  be  enjoyed  when  virtuously 
won,  thou«?h  it  were  better  if  not  proposed  as  the  object  of  desire. 
The  great  Knglish  magistrate,  Lord  Mansfield,  while  confessing  a  wish 
for  popularity,  added,  in  words  which  cannot  be  too  often  quoted,  "  But 
it  is  that  popularity  which  follows,  not  that  which  is  run  afler ;  it  is 
that  popularity  which,  sooner  or  later,  never  fails  to  do  justice  to  the 
pursuit  of  noble  ends  by  noble  rae^ins."  And  the  historian  of  the 
Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  who  was  no  stranger  to 
the  Love  of  Glory,  has  given  expression  to  the  satisfaction  which  he 
derived  from  the  approbation  of  those  whose  opinions  were  valuable. 
*•  If  I  listened  to  the  music  of  praise,"  says  Gibbon  in  his  Autobiog- 
raphy, **  I  was  more  seriously  satisfied  with  the  approbation  of  my 
judges.  The  candor  of  Dr.  Robertson  embraced  his  disciple.  A 
letter  from  Mr.  Hume  overpaid  the  lalK)r  of  ten  years."  It  would  be 
difficult  to  declare  the  self-gratulation  of  the  successful  author  in  lan- 
guage more  sententious  or  expressive. 

While  recognizing  praise  as  an  incidental  reward,  though  not  a 
commendable  motive,  we  cannot  disregard  the  evil  which  ensues 
when  the  desire  for  it  predominates  over  the  character,  and  fills  the 
soul,  as  is  too  often  the  case,  with  a  blind  emulation  chiefly  solicitous 
for  personal  success.  Tlu'  world,  which  should  be  a  happy  scene  of 
constant  exertion  and  harmonious  co-operation,  becomes  a  field  of 
rivalry,  competition,  and  hostile  struggle.  It  is  true  that  God  has  not 
given  to  all  the  same  excellences  of  mind  and  heart ;  but  he  naturally 
requires  more  of  the  strong  than  of  the  many  less  blessed.  The  little 
we  can  do  will  not  be  cast  vainly  into  his  treasury ;  nor  need  the 
weak  and  humble  be  filled  with  any  idle  emulation  of  others.  Let 
each  act  earnestly,  according  to  the  measure  of  his  powers,  —  re- 
joicing always  in  the  prosperity  of  his  neighbor ;  and  though  we  may 
seem  to  accomplish  little,  yet  we  shall  do  much,  if  we  be  true  to  the 
convictions  of  the  soul,  and  give  the  example  of  unselfish  devotion  to 
duty.  This  of  itself  is  success :  and  this  is  within  the  ambition  of 
all.  Life  is  no  L^yssean  bow,  to  be  bent  only  by  a  single  strong 
arm.     There  is  none  so  we^ik  as  not  to  use  it. 

In  the  growth  of  the  individual  the  intellect  advances  before  the 
moral  powers ;  for  it  is  necessary  to  know  what  is  right  before  we 
can  practice  it ;  and  this  same  order  of  progress  is  observed  in  the 


SUMNER.  271 

Human  Family.  Moral  excellence  is  the  bright,  consummate  flower 
of  all  progress.  It  is  often  the  peculiar  product  of  age.  And  it  is 
then,  among  other  triumphs  of  virtue,  that  Duty  assumes  her  com- 
manding phice,  while  personal  ambition  is  abased.  Burke,  in  that 
marvelous  passiige  of  eU'giac  beauty  where  he  mourns  his  only  son, 
says,  "  Indeed,  my  Lord,  1  greatly  deceive  myself,  if,  in  this  hard 
season,  I  would  give  a  peck  of  refuse  wheat  for  all  that  is  called 
Fame  and  Honor  in  the  world."  And  Channing,  with  a  sentiment 
most  unlike  the  ancient  Roman  orator,  declares  that  he  sees  "  nothing 
worth  living  for  but  the  divine  virtue  which  endures  and  surrenders 
all  things  for  truth,  duty,  and  mankind."  Such  an  insensibility  to 
worldly  objects,  and  such  an  elevation  of  spirit,  may  not  l)e  expected 
at  once  from  all  men,  —  certainly  not  without  something  of  the  trials 
of  Burke  or  the  soul  of  Channing.  But  it  is  within  the  power  of  all 
to  strive  after  that  virtue  which  it  may  be  difficult  to  reach  ;  and  just 
in  proportion  as  duty  becomes  the  guide  and  the  aim  of  life  shall  we 
learn  to  close  the  soul  against  the  allurements  of  pmise  and  the  as- 
perities of  censure,  while  we  find  satisfactions  and  compensations 
such  as  man  cannot  give  or  take  away.  The  world,  with  ignorant  or 
intolerant  judgment,  may  condemn  ;  the  countenance  of  companion 
may  be  averted ;  the  heart  of  friend  may  grow  cold  ;  but  the  con- 
sciousness of  duty  done  will  be  sweeter  than  the  applause  of  the  world, 
than  the  countenance  of  companion,  or  the  heart  of  friend. 


i 


The  age  of  chivalry  has  gone.  An  age  of  humanity  has  come. 
The  horse,  whose  importatice,  more  than  human,  gave  the  name  to 
that  early  period  of  gallantry  anil  war,  now  yields  his  foremost  place 
to  man.  In  serving  him,  in  promoting  his  elevation,  in  contributing 
to  his  welfare,  in  doing  him  good,  there  are  fields  of  bloodless  tri- 
umph, nobler  far  than  any  in  which  the  bravest  knights  ever  con- 
quered.    Here  art^  spaces  of  labor  wide  as  the  world,  lofty  as  heaven. 

Let  me  &iy,  then,  in  the  language  once  iK-stowed  upon  the  youthful 
knights,  scholars,  jurists,  artists,  philanthropists,  heroes  of  a  Chri.stian 
age,  companions  of  a  celestial  knighthood,  "  Go  forth.  Be  brave,  loyal, 
and  successfid  !  "  And  may  it  he  our  office  to  light  a  fresh  beacon- 
fire  sacred  to  truth  !  Let  the  flame  spread  from  hill  to  hill,  from  isl- 
and to  island,  from  continent  to  continent,  till  the  long  lineage  of  fires 
shall  illumine  all  the  nations  of  the  earth,  animating  them  to  the  holy 
conti'sts  of  knowledge,  instice.  benutv.  love. 


CATIICART^- 


.1  ir.UAin    KhADhu. 


DICKENS. 
1812-1870. 

CnAiiiT.s  DicKF.xs,  the  most  popular  novelist  of  his  time,  was  horn  at  Portsmonth,  Enj^land, 
in  1812,  and  died  June  0,  1870.  iiis  childhood  was  spent  in  poverty  and  menial  toil,  and  how, 
onud  such  unfavorable  surroundings,  he  acquired  an  education  sufficient  for  his  work  in  life  will 
always  remain  a  subject  of  wonder.  Ilis  father  was  at  one  time  a  reporter  of  Parliamentary 
delMtea.  and  Charles  adopted  the  same  calling.  He  became  attached  to  the  Morning  Chronicle, 
and  in  its  columns  first  appeared  Sketches  by  Doz,  afterwards  published  in  book  form,  1836-37. 
Tliese  Skrlch'S  had  a  very  cordial  reception,  and  their  success  induced  a  pul)lishcr  to  engage 
Dickens  and  Seymour  the  artist  to  prepare  an  illustrated  uanrative  of  the  adventures  of  a  party 
of  Cockney  sportsmen.  The  result  of  this  contract  was  The  Pickwick  Papers,  which  at  once  be- 
came the  most  popular  book  of  the  day,  and  still  ranks  among  the  first  favorites  of  all  classes  of 
readers.  It  was  followed  at  short  intervals  by  Nickoiat  Nieklehy,  Otirer  Twist,  The  Old  Curiosifi/ 
Shop,  and  Bamnhy  RuJge.  In  1H42  Uickcns  visited  America,  where  he  had  a  very  cordial  recep- 
tion. With  ingratitude  for  which  he  has  never  been  fully  forgiven,  he  re|mid  the  sincere  kind- 
ness ot  his  .\merican  entertainers  hy  writing  a  record  of  his  tour,  called  ^m^rirau  Notes,  in  which 
he  ridiculed  the  people  and  institutions  of  the  United  States  with  unsparing  hand.  In  i/artin 
Chuzzlrtcit,  published  in  181-*,  he  returned  to  the  attack  with  great  keenness  and  vigor  of  satire. 
In  1845  he  estahlisheii  the  Daily  News  in  I/)ndon,  but  rondncted  it  only  for  a  short  time,  return- 
ing to  the  more  congenial  work  of  novel- writing.  In  1853  he  began  to  give  public  readings  from 
his  own  books,  and  was  no  less  successful  as  a  reader  than  he  had  been  as  a  writer.  In  1868  he 
visited  America  for  the  second  time,  and  gave  readings  in  the  principal  cities  to  immense  and 
delighted  audiences.  The  profiU  of  his  tour  are  said  to  have  been  over  5SJ00,()(X).  During  the 
last  year  of  his  life  he  was  engaged  on  a  novel.  The  Mystery  of  Edtrin  Drood,  which  he  left  unfin- 
ished. His  death  was  very  sudden,  and  the  announcement  of  it  caused  universal  grief  throughout 
the  English-sp<>aking  world.  His  iMoks  arc  too  familiar  to  the  reading  pul>lic  to  demand  enumer- 
ation here.  Of  thent  all,  The  Pickwick  Papers,  Nicholas  Nickleby,  and  David  Copperfield  are  gen- 
erally esteemed  the  best ;  the  latter  is  specially  interesting  as  being  largely  autobiographical.  His 
later  novels.  Great  Exptctatioiu  and  Our  Mutwtl  Friend,  were  less  popular  than  their  predecessors. 
Among  English  novelists  Dickens  stands  alone  ;  he  occupies  a  field  that  none  other  has  cultivated, 
and  may  justly  be  esteemed  the  creator  of  a  new  school  of  fiction.  He  was  a  man  of  strong  sym- 
patliies,  quick  to  feel  and  plead  for  the  poor  and  oppressetl,  and  in  his  l)ooks  lie  ha^  done  yeoman 
service  in  the  work  of  social  and  legal  reform.  His  most  conspicuous  characteristic  is  humor, 
natural,  rich,  and  seemingly  inexhaustible,  and  in  this  quality  lies  the  chief  charm  of  his  writ- 
ings. Yet  many  pages  in  Dombey  and  Sum  exhibit  a  not  less  thorough  mastery  of  pathos.  The 
secret  of  his  success  seems  to  have  consisted  in  his  intuitive  apprehension  of  the  popular  nee<l3 
and  tastes ;  no  other  novelist  has  ever  live<l  who  was  so  thoroughly  e*  rapport  with  the  heart 
of  the  people  :  he  wrote  for  them  and  to  them,  and  they  acknowledged  his  efforts  with  un- 
bounded good-will  and  admiration.  Brilliant,  genial,  and  uniformly  entertaining  tliou'.'h  they 
are,  Dickens's  liooks  have  little  moral  depth  or  weight :  they  please,  warm,  soften,  but  they  are, 
in  effect,  material.  The  extracts,  each  of  which  represents  fairly  his  humor,  pathos,  and  descrip- 
ti\e  power,  are  from  The  Pickwick  Papers,  Dombey  and  San,  and  American  Notes. 


MR.   PICKWICK'S  EXTRAORDINARY  DILEMMA. 

Mr.  Pickwick's  apai-tments  in  Goswell  Street,  althon2:H  on  a 
limited  scale,  were  not  only  of  a  verv^  neat  and  comfortable  descrip- 
tion, but  peculiarly  adapted  for  the  residence  of  a  man  of  his  genius 
and  observation. 


DICKENS.  273 

His  landlady,  Mrs.  Bardell  —  the  relict  and  sole  executrix  of  a 
deceased  custom-house  officer  —  was  a  comely  woman  of  bustling 
manners  and  agreeable  appearance,  with  a  natural  genius  for  cooking, 
improved  by  study  and  long  practice  into  an  exquisite  talent.  There 
were  no  children,  no  servants,  no  fowls.  The  only  other  inmates  of 
the  house  were  a  large  man  and  a  small  boy ;  the  first  a  lodger,  the 
second  a  production  of  Mrs.  Bartlell's.  The  large  man  was  always 
home  precisely  at  ten  o'clock  at  night,  at  which  hour  he  regularly 
condensed  himself  into  the  limits  of  a  dwarfish  French  bedstead  in  the 
back  parlor ;  and  the  infantine  sports  and  gymnastic  exercises  of  Mas- 
ter Bardell  were  exclusively  confined  to  the  neighboring  pavements 
and  gutters.  Cleanliness  and  quiet  reigned  throughout  the  house; 
and  in  it  Mr.  Pickwick's  will  was  law. 

To  any  one  acquainted  with  these  points  of  the  domestic  economy 
of  the  establishment,  and  conversant  with  the  admirable  regulation  of 
Mr.  Pickwick's  mind,  his  appearance  and  behavior,  on  the  morning 
previous  to  that  which  had  been  fixed  upon  for  the  journey  to  Eatans- 
will,  would  have  Ix^en  most  mysterious  and  unaccountable.  He  paced 
the  room  to  and  fro  with  hurried  steps,  popped  his  head  out  of  the 
window  at  intervals  of  about  three  minutes  each,  const^intly  referred 
to  his  watch,  and  exhibited  many  other  manifestations  of  impatience, 
very  unusual  with  him.  It  was  evident  that  something  of  great  im- 
portance was  in  contemplation;  but  what  that  something  was,  not 
even  Mrs.  Bardell  herself  had  been  enabled  to  discover. 

"  Mrs.  Banlell,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  at  last,  as  that  amiable  female 
approached  the  termination  of  a  prolonged  dusting  of  the  apart- 
ment. 

"  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Banlell. 

"  Your  little  boy  is  a  very  long  time  gone." 

"  Why,  it 's  a  good  long  way  to  the  Borough,  sir,"  remonstrated 
Mrs.  Bardell. 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "  very  tnie ;  so  it  is." 

Mr.  Pickwick  relapsed  into  sih'iire.  and  Mrs.  Bardell  res\inied  her 
dusting. 

"Mrs.  Banldl."  <,ii(l  Mr.  Pickwick,  at  the  expimtion  of  a  lew 
minutes. 

"Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell  again. 

"  Do  you  think  it 's  a  much  greater  expense  to  keep  two  people 
than  to  keep  one  ?  " 

12«  R 


2/4  (.A  I  IK  \i:i'^   i.ukkakv   kkadki:. 

"  La,  Mr.  Pickwick,"  said  Mrs.  Bardcll,  coloring  up  to  the  very 
border  of  her  cap,  as  she  fancied  she  observed  a  species  of  matrimo- 
nial twinkle  in  the  eyes  of  her  lodger,  —  *'la,  Mr.  Pickwick,  what  a 
question  !  " 

"  Well,  but  do  you  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"  That  depends,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  approaching  the  duster  very 
near  to  Mr.  Pickwick's  elbow,  which  was  planted  on  the  table, — 
"  that  depends  a  good  deal  upon  the  person,  you  know,  Mr.  Pick- 
wick ;  and  whether  it 's  a  saving  and  careful  person,  sir." 

"  That 's  very  true,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick ;  "  but  the  person  I  have 
in  my  eye  "  (here  he  looked  very  hard  at  Mrs.  Bardell)  "  I  think  pos- 
sesses these  qualities ;  and  has,  moreover,  a  considemblc  knowledge 
of  the  world,  and  a  great  deal  of  sharpness,  Mrs.  IkrdcU  ;  w  hich  may 
be  of  material  use  to  me." 

"  La,  Mr.  Pickwick,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell ;  the  crimson  rising  to  her 
cap-border  again. 

"  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  growing  energetic,  as  was  his  wont  in 
speaking  of  a  subject  which  interested  him,  —  "I  do,  indeed ;  and, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mrs.  Bardell,  I  have  made  up  my  mind." 

**  Dear  me,  sir,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell. 

**  You  '11  think  it  not  very  strange  now,"  said  the  amiable  Mr. 
Pickwick,  with  a  good-humored  glance  at  his  companion,  "  that  I 
never  consulted  you  about  this  matter,  and  never  mentioned  it,  till 
I  sent  your  little  boy  out  this  morning,  —  eh  ?  " 

Mrs.  Bardell  could  only  reply  by  a  look.  She  had  long  worshiped 
Mr.  Pickwick  at  a  distance,  but  here  she  w^as,  all  at  once,  raised  to  a 
pinnacle  to  which  her  wildest  and  most  extravagant  hopes  had  never 
dared  to  aspire.  Mr.  Pickwick  was  going  to  propose,  —  a  deliberate 
plan,  too,  —  sent  her  little  boy  to  the  Borough  to  get  him  out  of  the 
way,  —  how  thoughtful,  —  how  considerate ! 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "  what  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  O  Mr.  Pickwick  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  trembling  with  agitation, 
"  you  're  very  kind,  sir." 

"  It  will  save  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  won't  it?  "  said  Mr. 
Pickwick. 

"  O,  I  never  thought  anything  of  the  trouble,  sir,"  replied  Mrs. 
Bardell ;  "  and  of  course,  I  should  take  more  trouble  to  please  you 
then  than  ever ;  but  it  is  so  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Pickwick,  to  have  so 
much  consideration  for  my  loneliness." 


DICKENS. 


Ji7. 


"  Ah,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick ;  "  I  never  thought  of  that. 
When  1  am  in  town,  you  '11  always  have  somebody  to  sit  with  you. 
To  be  sure,  so  you  will." 

"  I  'ni  sure  I  ought  to  be  a  very  happy  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Bar- 
dcU. 

"  And  your  little  boy  —  "  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"  Bless  his  heart,"  interposed  Mrs.  Bardell,  with  a  maternal  sob. 

"He,  too,  will  have  a  companion,"  resumed  Mr.  Pickwick,  —  "a 
lively  one,  who'll  teach  him,  I'll  be  bound,  more  tricks  in  a  week 
than  he  would  ever  learn  in  a  year."  And  Mr.  Pickwick  smded 
placidly. 

"  O  you  dear —  "  said  Mrs.  Bardell. 

Mr.  Pickwick  started. 

"  O  you  kind,  good,  playful  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell ;  and  without 
more  ado  she  rose  from  her  chair,  and  flung  her  arms  round  Mr. 
Pickwick's  neck,  with  a  cataract  of  tears,  and  a  chorus  of  sobs. 

"  Bless  my  soul !  "  cried  the  astonished  Mr.  Pickwick  ;  —  "  Mrs. 
Bardell,  my  good  woman,  —  dear  me,  what  a  situation,  —  pray  con- 
sider.    Mrs.  Bardell,  don't,  —  if  anylxxly  should  come  —  " 

"  O,  let  them  come,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell,  frantically.  "  I  '11 
never  leave  you,  —  dear,  kind,  good  soul " ;  and,  with  these  words, 
Mrs.  Bardell  clung  the  tighter. 

"  Mercy  upon  me,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  struggling  violently.  **  I 
hear  somebody  coming  up  the  stairs.  Don't,  don't,  there  's  a  good 
creature,  don't."  But  entreaty  and  remonstrance  were  alike  unavail- 
ing, for  Mrs.  Bardell  had  fainted  in  Mr.  Pickwick's  arms ;  and  before 
he  could  gain  time  to  deposit  her  on  a  chair.  Master  Bardell  entered 
the  room,  ushering  in  Mr.  Tupman,  Mr.  Winkle,  and  Mr.  Snod- 
grass. 

Mr.  Pickwick  was  struck  motioidess  and  speechless.  He  sto'jd 
with  his  lovely  burden  in  his  arras,  gazing  vacantly  on  the  counte- 
nances of  his  friends,  without  the  slightest  attempt  at  recognition  or 
explanation.  They,  in  their  turn,  sUired  at  him  ;  and  Master  Bardell, 
in  his  turn,  stared  at  everybody. 

The  astonishment  of  the  Pickwickians  was  so  absorbing,  and  the 
perplexity  of  Mr.  Pickwick  was  so  extreme,  that  they  might  have  re- 
mained in  exactly  the  same  relative  sitiuitions  until  the  suspended 
animation  of  the  latly  was  restored,  had  it  not  been  for  a  most  Ixijiutifid 
and  touching  expression  of  filial  affection  on  the  part  of  her  youthful 


276  cathcart's  liteeaey  reader. 

son.  Chid  in  a  tight  suit  of  corduroy,  spangled  with  brass  buttons  of  a 
very  considerable  size,  he  at  first  stood  at  tlie  door  astounded  and  un- 
certain ;  but  by  degn^es,  the  impression  that  his  mother  must  have 
suffered  some  personal  damage  pervaded  his  partially  developed 
mind,  and,  considering  Mr.  Pickwick  the  aggressor,  he  set  up  an  ap- 
palling and  semi-earthly  kind  of  howling,  and,  butting  forward  witli 
his  head,  commenced  assailing  that  immortal  gentleman  about  the 
back  and  le^s  with  such  blows  and  pinches  as  the  strength  of  his  arm 
and  the  violence  of  his  excitement  allowed. 

"  Take  this  little  villain  away,"  said  the  agonized  Mr.  Pickwick, 
"be  's  mad." 

**  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  said  the  three  tongue-tied  Pickwickians. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Pickwick,  pettishly.  "  Take  away 
the  boy  "  (here  Mr.  Winkle  carried  the  interesting  boy,  screaming  and 
stniggling,  to  the  farther  end  of  the  apartment).  "  Now  help  me  to 
lead  this  woman  down  stairs." 

**  O,  I  'm  better  now,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  faintly. 

"  Let  me  lead  you  down  stairs,"  said  the  ever-gallant  Mr.  Tup- 
man. 

"Thank  you,  sir, — thank  you,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell,  hysteri- 
cally. And  down  stairs  she  was  led  accordingly,  accompanied  by  her 
affectionate  son. 

"  I  cannot  conceive,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  when  his  friend  returned, 
—  "I  cannot  conceive  what  has  been  the  matter  with  that  woman.  I 
had  merely  announced  to  her  my  intention  of  keeping  a  man-servant, 
when  she  fell  into  the  extraordinary  paroxysm  in  which  you  found 
her.     Very  extraordinary  thing  !  " 

"  Very,"  said  his  three  friends. 

"  Placed  me  in  such  an  extremely  awkward  situation,"  continued  Mr. 
Pickwick. 

"  Very,"  was  the  reply  of  his  followers,  as  they  coughed  slightly, 
and  looked  dubiously  at  each  other. 

This  behavior  was  not  lost  upon  Mr.  Pickwick.  He  remarked 
their  incredulity.     They  evidently  suspected  him. 

"  There  is  a  man  in  the  passage  now,"  said  Mr.  Tupman. 

**  It 's  the  man  that  I  spoke  to  you  about,"  said  Mr.  Pick\vick. 
"  I  sent  for  him  to  the  Borough  this  morning.  Have  the  goodness 
to  call  him  up,  Snodgrass." 


DICKENS.  277 

THE  LAST  H0UB8  OF  LITTLE  PAUL  DOMBET. 

Paul  had  never  risen  from  his  little  bed.  He  lay  there,  listening 
to  the  noises  in  the  street,  quite  tranquilly ;  not  caring  much  how  the 
time  went,  but  watching  everything  about  him  with  observing  eyes. 

When  the  sunlK'ams  struck  into  his  room  through  the  nistling 
blinds,  and  quivered  on  the  opposite  wall  like  golden  water,  he  knew 
that  evening  was  coming  on,  and  that  the  sky  was  red  and  beautiful. 
As  the  reflection  died  away,  and  the  gloom  went  creeping  up  the  wall, 
he  watched  it  deepen,  deepen,  deepen  into  night.  Then  he  thought 
how  the  long  streets  were  dotted  with  lamps,  and  how  the  peacei'ul 
stars  were  shining  overhead.  His  fancy  had  a  strange  tendency  to 
wander  to  the  river,  which  he  knew  was  flowing  through  the  great 
city ;  and  now  he  thought  how  bkck  it  was,  and  how  deep  it  would 
look,  reflecting  the  hosts  of  stars,  and  more  than  all,  how  ste^idily  it 
rolled  away  to  meet  the  sea. 

As  it  grew  later  in  the  night,  and  footsteps  in  the  street  l)ecame  so 
rare  that  he  could  hear  them  coming,  count  them  as  they  passed,  and 
lose  them  in  the  hollow  distance,  he  would  lie  and  watch  the  many- 
colored  ring  about  the  candle,  and  wait  patiently  for  day.  His  only 
trouble  was,  the  swift  and  rapid  river.  He  felt  forced,  sometimes,  to 
trj'  to  stop  it,  —  to  stem  it  with  his  childish  hands,  or  choke  its 
way  with  sand,  —  and  when  he  saw  it  coming  on,  resistless,  he  cried 
out  I  But  a  word  from  Florence,  who  was  always  at  his  side,  restored 
him  to  himself;  and  leaning  his  poor  head  upon  her  breast,  he  told 
Floy  of  his  dream,  and  smiled. 

When  day  began  to  dawn  again,  he  watched  for  the  sun  ;  and  when 
its  cheerful  light  began  to  sparkle  in  the  room,  he  pictured  to  himself — 
pictured !  he  saw  —  the  high  church-towers  rising  up  into  the  morn- 
ing sky,  the  town  reviving,  waking,  starting  into  life  once  more,  the 
river  glistening  as  it  rolle<l  (but  rolling  fast  as  ever),  and  the  country 
bright'  with  dew.  Familiar  sounds  and  cries  came  by  degrees  into 
the  street  lielow ;  the  servants  in  the  house  were  roused  aiul  busy ; 
faces  looked  in  at  the  door,  and  voices  asked  his  attendants  softly 
how  he  was.  Paul  always  answered  for  him.self,  "  I  am  better.  I  am 
a  great  deal  better,  thank  you  !      Tell  papa  so  !  " 

By  little  and  little  he  got  tired  of  the  bustle  of  the  day,  the  noise  of 
carriages  and  carts,  people  passing  and  repassing ;  and  would  fall 
asleep,  or  be  troubled  with  a  restless  and  uneasy  sense  again  —  the 


'^  i  5  ( "  AT  11 C  A  UT  S     I . IT  t  K  A  U  Y     K  K  A  D K 11 . 

child  could  hardly  tell  whether  this  were  in  his  sleeping  or  his  walcing 
moments  —  of  that  rushing  river.  *•  Why,  will  it  never  stop,  Floy?  " 
he  would  sometimes  ask  her.     '*  It  is  bearing  me  away,  I  think !  " 

But  Floy  could  always  soothe  and  reassure  him ;  and  it  was  his 
daily  delight  to  make  her  lay  her  head  down  on  his  pillow,  and  t«ike 
some  rest. 

"  You  are  always  watching  me,  Floy.  Let  me  watch  you,  now  !  " 
They  would  prop  him  up  with  cushions  in  a  corner  of  his  bed,  and 
there  he  would  recline  the  while  she  lay  beside  him  ;  bending  forward 
oftentimes  to  kiss  her,  and  whispering  to  those  who  were  near  that  she 
was  tired,  and  how  she  had  sat  up  so  many  nights  beside  him. 

Thus,  the  flush  of  the  day,  in  its  heat  and  light,  would  gradually 
decline  ;  and  again  the  golden  water  would  be  dancing  on  the  wall. 

He  was  visited  by  as  many  as  three  grave  doctors,  —  they  used  to 
assemble  down  stairs,  and  come  up  together,  —  and  the  room  was  so 
quiet,  aiul  Paul  was  so  observant  of  them  (though  he  never  asked  of 
anybody  what  they  said),  that  he  even  knew  the  difference  in  the  sound 
of  their  watches.  But  his  interest  centered  in  Sir  Parker  Peps,  who 
always  took  his  seat  on  the  side  of  the  bed.  For  Paul  had  heard 
them  say  long  ago,  that  that  gentleman  had  been  with  his  nianiina 
when  she  clasped  Florence  in  her  arms  and  died.  And  he  could  not 
forget  it  now.     He  liked  him  for  it.     He  was  not  afraid 

Paul  closed  his  eyes  with  those  words,  and  fell  asleep.  Wlien  he 
awoke,  the  sun  was  high,  and  the  broad  day  was  clear  and  warm. 
He  lay  a  little,  looking  at  the  windows,  which  were  open,  and  the 
curtains  rustling  in  the  air,  and  waving  to  and  fro :  then  he  said, 
"  Floy,  is  it  to-moiTow  ?     Is  she  come  ?  " 

Some  one  seemed  to  go  in  quest  of  her.  Perhaps  it  was  Susan. 
Paul  thought  he  heard  her  telling  him,  when  he  had  closed  his  eyes 
again,  that  she  would  soon  be  back ;  but  he  did  not  open  them  to  see. 
She  kept  her  word  —  perhaps  she  had  never  been  away  —  but  the 
next  thing  that  happened  was  a  noise  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and 
then  Paul  woke  —  woke  mind  and  body  —  and  sat  upright  in  his  bed. 
He  saw  them  now  about  him.  There  was  no  gray  mist  before  them, 
as  there  had  been  sometimes  in  the  night.  He  knew  them  every  one, 
and  called  them  by  their  names. 

"  And  who  is  this  ?  Is  this  my  old  nurse  ?  "  said  the  child,  re- 
garding, with  a  radiant  smile,  a  figure  coming  in. 

Yes,  ves.     No  other  stranger  would  have  shed  those  tears  at  the 


DICKENS.  279 

fei>ht  of  him,  and  called  him  her  dear  boy,  her  pretty  boy,  her  own 
poor  bli«fhlt'd  child.  No  other  woman  would  have  stoopt'd  down  by 
his  bed,  and  taken  up  his  wasted  hand,  and  put  it  to  her  lips  and 
breast,  as  one  who  had  some  right  to  fondle  it.  No  other  woman 
would  have  so  forgotttMi  everybody  there  but  him  and  Floy,  and  been 
so  full  of  tenderness  and  pity. 

*•  Floy  !  this  is  a  kind  good  face  !  "  said  Paul.  "  I  am  glad  to  see 
it  again.     Don't  go  away,  old  nurse  !     Stay  here  !  " 

His  senses  were  all  quickened,  and  he  heard  a  name  he  knew. 

••  Who  was  that  ?  who  said  Walter  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  round, 
"  Some  one  said  Walter.  Is  he  here  ?  I  should  like  to  see  him  very 
much." 

Nobody  replied  directly,  but  his  father  soon  said  to  Susan,  "  Call 
him  back,  then  :  let  him  come  up  !  "  After  a  short  pause  of  expecta- 
tion, during  which  he  looked  with  smiling  interest  and  wonder  on  his 
nurse,  and  saw  that  she  had  not  forgotten  Floy,  Walter  was  brought 
into  the  room.  His  open  face  and  manner,  and  his  cheerful  eyes, 
had  always  made  him  a  favorite  with  Paul ;  and  when  Paul  saw  him, 
he  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  said,  "  Grood  by  !  " 

"  Good  by,  my  child  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Pipchiu,  hurrying  to  his  bed's 
head.     "  Not  good  by  ?  " 

For  an  instant,  Paul  looked  at  her  \ni\i  the  wistful  face  with  which 
he  had  so  often  gazed  upon  her  in  his  comer  by  the  fire.  "  Ah,  yes," 
he  said,  placidly,  "good  by  !  Walter  dear,  good  by  !  "  turning  his  head 
to  where  he  stood,  and  putting  out  his  hand  jujain.    "  Where  is  papa  ?  " 

He  frit  his  father's  breath  upon  his  cheek,  before  the  words  had 
partetl  from  his  lips. 

"  Rememl)er  Walter,  dear  papa,"  he  whispered,  looking  in  his  face, 
—  "  remember  Walter.  I  was  fond  of  Walter !  "  The  feeble  hand 
waved  in  the  air,  as  if  it  cried  "  good  by  !  "  to  Walter  once  again. 

*•  Now  lay  me  down  again,"  he  said ;  "  and,  Floy,  come  close  to 
me,  and  let  me  see  you  !  " 

Sister  and  brother  wound  their  arms  around  each  other,  and  the 
golden  light  came  streaming  in,  and  fell  upon  them,  locked  together. 

"  How  fast  the  river  runs  between  its  green  banks  and  the  rushes, 
Floy  !  But  it 's  very  near  the  sea.  I  hear  the  waves.  They  always 
sai<l  so !  " 

Presently  he  told  her  that  the  motion  of  the  boat  upon  the  stream 
was  lulling  him  to  rest.     How  green  the  banks  were  now,  how  bright 


2 so  CATHC art's  literary  reader. 

the  flowers  growing  on  them,  and  how  tall  the  rushes !  Now  the 
boat  was  out  at  sea,  but  gliding  smoothly  on.  And  now  tlicre  was  a 
shore  before  him.     Who  stood  on  the  bank  ! 

He  put  his  hands  together,  as  he  had  been  used  to  do  at  his  prayers. 
He  did  not  remove  his  arms  to  do  it,  but  they  saw  him  fold  them  so 
behind  her  neck. 

"Mamma  is  like  you,  Floy.  I  know  her  by  the  face!  But  tell 
them  that  the  print  upon  the  stairs  at  school  is  not  divine  enough. 
The  light  about  the  head  is  shining  on  me  as  I  go !  " 

The  golden  ripple  on  the  wall  came  back  again,  and  nothing  else 
stirred  in  the  room.  The  old,  old  fashion  !  The  fashion  that  came 
in  with  our  first  garments,  and  will  last  unchanged  until  our  race  has 
run  its  course,  and  the  wide  firmament  is  rolled  up  like  a  scroll.  The 
old,  old  fashion  —  Death  ! 

O,  thank  God,  all  who  see  it,  for  that  older  fashion  yet,  of  immor- 
tality !  And  look  upon  us,  angels  of  young  children,  with  regards 
not  quite  estranged,  when  the  swift  river  bears  us  to  the  ocean  ! 

A  HEADWIND  IN  THE  ATLANTIC. 

It  is  the  third  morning.  I  am  awakened  out  of  my  sleep  by  a 
dismal  shriek  from  my  wife,  who  demands  to  know  whether  there  's 
any  danger.  I  rouse  myself  and  look  out  of  bed.  The  water-jug  is 
plunging  and  leaping  like  a  lively  dolphin ;  all  the  smaller  articles 
are  afloat,  except  my  shoes,  which  are  stranded  on  a  carpet-bag,  high 
and  dr\',  like  a  couple  of  coal-l)arges.  Suddenly  I  see  them  spring  into 
the  air,  and  behold  the  looking-glass,  which  is  nailed  to  the  wall, 
sticking  fast  upon  the  ceiling.  At  the  same  time  the  door  entirely 
disappears,  and  a  new  one  is  opened  in  the  floor.  Then  I  begin  to 
comprehend  that  the  state-room  is  standing  on  its  head. 

Before  it  is  possible  to  make  any  arrangement  at  all  compatible 
with  this  novel  state  of  things,  the  ship  rights.  Before  one  can  say, 
"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  she  wrongs  again.  Before  one  can  cry  she  is 
wrong,  she  seems  to  have  started  forward,  and  to  be  a  creature  active- 
ly running  of  its  own  accord,  with  broken  knees  and  failing  legs, 
through  every  variety  of  hole  and  pitfall,  and  stumbling  constantly. 
Before  one  can  so  much  as  wonder,  she  takes  a  high  leap  into  the  air. 
Before  she  has  well  done  that,  she  takes  a  deep  dive  into  the  water. 


DICKENS.  281 

Before  she  has  gained  the  surface,  she  throws  a  somerset.  The  in- 
stant she  is  on  her  h*gs,  she  rushes  backward.  And  so  she  goes  on 
stai^jrcring,  heaving,  wrestling,  leaping,  diving,  jumping,  pitching, 
tlirobbing,  rolling,  and  rocking ;  and  going  through  all  these  move- 
ments, sometimes  by  turns,  and  sometimes  all  together;  until  one 
feels  disposed  to  roar  for  mercy. 

A  steward  passes.  "  Steward  !  "  **  Sir  ?  "  "  What  is  the  matter  ? 
what  do  you  call  this  ?  '*  "  Bather  a  heavy  sea  on,  sir,  and  a  head- 
wind." 

A  head-wind  !  Imagine  a  human  face  upon  the  vessel's  prow,  with 
fifteen  thous  ind  Samsons  in  one,  bent  upon  driving  her  back,  and 
hitting  her  exactly  between  the  eyes  whenever  she  attempts  to  advance 
an  inch.  Imagine  the  ship  herself,  with  every  pulse  and  artery  of  her 
huge  body  swollen  and  bursting  under  this  maltreatment,  sworn  to  go 
on  or  die.  Imagine  the  wind  howling,  the  sea  roaring,  the  rain  beat- 
ing ;  all  in  furious  array  against  her.  Picture  the  sky  both  dark  and 
wild,  and  the  clouds,  in  fearful  sympathy  with  the  waves,  making  an- 
other ocean  in  the  air.  Add  to  all  this,  the  clattering  on  deck  and  down 
below  ;  the  tread  of  hurried  feet ;  the  loud  hoarse  shouts  of  seamen  ; 
the  gurgling  in  and  out  of  water  through  the  scuppers ;  with,  every 
now  and  then,  the  striking  of  a  heavy  sea  upon  the  planks  above, 
with  the  deep,  dead,  heavy  sound  of  thunder  heard  within  a  vault;  — 
and  there  is  the  head-wind  of  that  January  morning. 

1  say  nothing  of  what  may  be  called  the  domestic  noises  of  the 
ship  :  such  as  the  breaking  of  glass  and  crockery,  the  tumbling  down 
of  stewards,  the  gambols,  overhead,  of  loose  casks  and  truant  dozens 
of  lM)ttle<l  porter,  and  the  very  remarkable  and  far  from  exhilarating 
sounds  raised  in  their  various  state-rooms  by  the  seventy  passengers 
who  were  too  ill  to  get  up  to  breakfast.  I  say  nothing  of  them ;  for, 
although  I  lay  listening  to  this  concert  for  three  or  four  days,  I  don*t 
think  I  heard  it  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  minuU;,  at  the  expiration 
of  wiiich  term  I  lay  down  again,  excessively  sea-sick. 

The  Liboring  of  the  ship  in  the  troubled  sea  on  this  night  I  shall 
never  forget.  "  Will  it  ever  be  worse  than  this  ?  '*  was  a  question  I 
had  often  heanl  asked,  when  everythitig  was  sliding  and  bumping 
abont,  and  when  it  certaiidy  did  seem  diffieult  to  compreliend  the  pos- 
sibility of  anything  afloat  l)eing  more  disturlxnl,  witiiout  toppling  over 
and  going  down.  But  what  the  agitation  of  a  steam-vessel  is,  on  a 
b.-ul  winter's  night  in  the  wild  Atlantic,  it  is  impossible  for  the  most 


2,>)'Z  CATHCAIM.S    LITEKAKY     RhADER. 

vivid  imagination  to  conceive.  To  say  that  she  is  flung  down  on  her 
side  in  the  waves,  with  her  masts  dipping  into  tliem,  and  that,  spring- 
ing up  again,  she  rolls  over  on  the  other  side,  until  a  heavy  sea  strikes 
her  with  the  noise  of  a  hundred  great  guns,  and  hurls  her  back,  — 
that  she  stops,  and  staggers,  and  shivei*s,  as  though  stunned,  and  then, 
with  a  violent  throbbing  at  her  heart,  darts  onward  like  a  monster 
goaded  into  madness,  to  be  beaten  down,  and  battered,  and  crushed, 
and  Ic^ipeil  on  by  the  angry  sea,  —  that  thunder,  lightning,  hail,  and 
rain,  and  wind  are  all  in  fierce  contention  for  the  mastery,  —  that 
every  plank  has  its  groan,  every  nail  its  shriek,  and  every  drop  of 
water  in  the  great  ocean  its  howling  voice,  —  is  nothing.  To  say  that 
all  is  grand,  and  all  appalling  and  horrible  in  the  last  degree,  is  noth- 
ing. Wonls  cannot  express  it.  Thoughts  cannot  convey  it.  Only  a 
dream  can  call  it  up  again,  in  all  its  fury,  rage,  and  passion. 

And  yet,  in  the  very  midst  of  these  terrors,  I  was  placed  in  a  situa- 
tion so  exquisitely  ridiculous  that  even  then  I  had  aa  strong  a  sense  of 
its  absurdity  as  I  have  now  :  and  could  no  more  help  laughing  than  I 
can  at  any  other  comical  incident,  happening  under  circumstances  the 
most  favorable  to  its  enjoyment.  Al)out  midnight  we  shipped  a  sea, 
which  forced  its  way  through  the  skylights,  burst  open  the  doors 
al)Ove,  and  came  raging  and  roaring  down  into  the  ]adi(^s'  cabin,  to  the 
unspeakable  consternation  of  my  wife  and  a  little  Scotch  lady,  —  who, 
by  the  way,  had  previously  sent  a  message  to  the  captain  by  the  stew- 
anless,  requesting  him,  with  her  compliments,  to  have  a  steel  conduc- 
tor immediately  attached  to  the  top  of  every  mast,  and  to  the  chimney, 
in  order  that  the  ship  might  not  be  struck  by  lightning.  They,  and  the 
handmaid  More  mentioned,  l)eing  in  such  ecstasies  of  fear  that  I  scarce- 
ly knew  what  to  do  with  them,  I  naturally  Ixjthought  myself  of  some 
restorative  or  comforting  cordial ;  and  nothing  lx?tter  occurring  to 
me,  at  the  moment,  than  hot  brandy  and  water,  I  procured  a  tumbler- 
ful without  delay.  It  being  impossible  to  sit  or  stand  without  hold- 
ing on,  they  were  all  heaped  together  in  one  comer  of  a  long  sofa,  —  a 
fixture  extending  entirely  across  the  cabin,  —  where  they  clung  to  each 
other  in  momentary  expectation  of  being  drowned.  When  I  ap- 
proached this  place  with  my  specific,  and  was  about  to  administer  it, 
with  many  consolatory  expressions,  to  the  nearest  sufferer,  what  was 
my  dismay  to  see  them  all  roll  slowly  down  to  the  other  end !  And 
when  I  staggered  to  that  end,  and  held  out  the  glass  once  more,  how 
immensely  baffled  were  my  good  intentions  by  the  ship  giving  another 


DICKENS.  283 

lurch,  and  their  all  rolling  back  again !  I  suppose  I  dodged  them  up 
and  down  this  sofa  for  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  without  reaching 
them  once  ;  and  hy  the  time  I  did  catch  them,  the  brandy  and  water 
was  diminished,  by  constant  spilling,  to  a  teaspoonful.  To  complete 
the  group,  it  is  necessary  to  recognize,  in  this  disconcerted  dodger,  an 
individual  very  pale  from  sea-sickness ;  who  had  shaved  his  beard  and 
brushed  his  hair  last  at  Liverpool ;  and  whose  only  articles  of  dress 
(linen  not  included)  were  a  pair  of  dreadnought  trousers,  a  blue  jacket, 
fonnerly  admired  upon  the  Thames  at  Richmond,  no  stockings,  and 
one  slipper. 

THE  NOBLE  SAVAGE. 

To  come  to  the  point  at  once,  I  beg  to  say  that  I  have  not  the  least 
belief  in  the  Noble  Savage.  I  consider  him  a  prodigious  nuisance, 
and  an  enormous  superstition.  His  calling  rum  fire-water,  and  me 
a  pale-face,  wholly  fail  to  reconcile  me  to  him.  I  don't  care  what  he 
calls  me.  I  call  him  a  savage,  and  I  call  a  savage  a  something  highly 
desirjible  to  be  civilized  off  the  face  of  the  earth.  I  think  a  mere  gent 
(which  I  take  to  be  the  lowest  form  of  civilization)  better  than  a  howl- 
ing, whistling,  clucking,  stamping,  jumping,  tearing  savage.  It  is 
all  onQ  to  me  whether  he  sticks  a  fish-bone  through  his  visage,  or  bits 
of  trees  through  the  lobes  of  his  ears,  or  birds'  feathers  in  his  head ; 
whether  he  flattens  his  hair  between  two  boards,  or  spreads  his  nose 
over  the  breadth  of  his  face,  or  drags  his  lower  lip  down  by  great 
weights,  or  blackens  his  teeth,  or  knocks  them  out,  or  paints  one 
cheek  red  and  the  other  blue,  or  tattooes  himself,  or  oils  himself,  or 
rubs  his  body  with  fat,  or  crimps  it  with  knives.  Yielding  to  which- 
soever of  these  agreeable  eccentricities,  he  is  a  savage,  —  cruel,  false, 
thievish,  murderous  ;  addicted  more  or  less  to  grease,  entrails,  and 
beastly  customs  ;  a  wild  animal  with  the  questionable  gift  of  boast- 
ing; a  conceited,  tiresome,  bloodthirsty,  monotonous  humbug. 

Yet  it  is  extraordinary  to  obser\'e  how  some  people  will  talk  about 
him,  as  they  talk  about  the  good  old  times ;  how  they  will  regret  his 
disappearance,  in  the  course  of  this  world's  development,  from  such 
and  such  lands,  —  when^  his  absence  is  a  blessed  relief  and  an  indis- 
pensable preparation  for  the  sowing  of  the  verj*  first  seeds  of  an  influ- 
ence that  can  exalt  humanity,  —  how,  even  with  the  evidence  of  him- 
self before  them,  they  will  either  l)e  determined  to  believe,  or  will 
suffer  themselves  to  \wi  persuaded  into  believing,  that  he  is  something 
which  their  five  senses  tell  them  he  is  not. 


'Zbis  cathcaet's  literary  reader. 

MRS.   STOWE. 

1812- 

n ASRIET  Bkecheb  Stowk,  boni  ill  Litchfield,  Conncctirut,  June  It,  1812,  has  a  world-wide 
fame  ns  the  author  of  Uncle  TawCi  CaHn.  She  is  the  daughter  of  Rev.  Dr.  Lyman  Bcecher, 
an  eminent  clergyoun,  and  the  sister  of  Rev.  Henry  Ward  Beechcr.  In  iKCi-'i  she  bc-cajue  the 
wife  of  Professor  Calvin  £.  Stowe,  a  distinguished  Hebrew  scholar  and  theologian.  Her  first 
hook,  Mayflower ;  or,  Sletckes  of  the  DetcrMJamts  of  the  Pilgrims,  was  published  in  1&49,  and  was 
favorably  noticed  at  home  and  abroad.  Three  years  later  she  gave  to  the  world  what  must  be 
regarded  as  the  most  remarkable  book  of  the  century,  its  subject  and  its  popularity  being 
considered,  —  CmcU  Tom't  CuHm.  This  story  was  first  published  as  a  serial  in  the  National 
Era,  in  ISol  -  S2,  and  appeared  in  book  form  in  183^  Its  sales  must  be  reckoned  by  uiilliuns,  aud 
through  translations  and  dramatizations  it  lias  reached  every  civilized  nation  under  the  sun. 
This  extraordinary  popularity  was  due  not  so  much  to  the  author's  genius  as  to  the  novelty  and 
intrinsic  interest  of  her  subject  and  the  excited  state  of  public  sentiment  with  reference  to  it. 
Read  to^ay,  removed  from  the  heat  of  a  great  conflict  of  opinions,  the  book  dischwes  many  and 
grave  faults,  errors  of  finit  and  literary  infelicities.  It  is  a  significant  and  gratifying  fact  that 
the  author  is  now  a  resident  of  the  South,  whose  enemy  she  has  been  accuunted ;  and  in  her 
recent  book,  PulmrUo  Lmtrt,  she  exhibits  a  more  accurate  knowledge  of  that  section,  and  a 
•incere  interest  in  its  welfare.  Mrs.  Stowe  has  written  many  other  books ;  l>ut  none  ot  them 
have  added  to  the  fame  which  she  derived  from  Vnele  TonCt  Cahi%.  Perhaps  OUIokh  Folkt 
may  be  ranked  next  to  this  in  real  ability.  The  Tmr  Story  of  Udy  Byron's  Life,  in  which  Mrs. 
Stowe  defamed  tlie  memory  of  Lord  Byron,  drew  upon  her  a  torrent  of  indignation  such  as  few 
authors  have  ever  endured.  Her  recent  novels,  Pink  and  White  Tyranny  and  My  Wife  and  I, 
deal  with  social  subjects  in  vigorous  style ;  but,  like  all  her  compositions,  they  are  disfigured 
by  many  literary  blemishes.  She  is  a  very  industrious  writer,  contributing  to  the  periodical 
press  papers  on  religious  and  social  topics,  and  manifests  a  hearty  interest  in  the  improvement 
of  society  through  its  moral  elevation.    The  extract  is  from  OUtown  Folks. 

TYRANNY  OF  MISS  ASPHYXIA. 

Matters  between  Miss  Asphyxia  and  her  little  subject  began 
to  show  evident  signs  of  approaching  some  crisis,  for  which  that 
valiant  virgin  was  preparing  herself  with  mind  resolved.  It  was  one 
of  her  educational  tactics  that  children,  at  greater  or  less  intervals, 
would  require  what  she  was  wont  to  speak  of  as  t/ood  whippings,  as  a 
sort  of  constitutional  stimulus  to  start  them  in  the  ways  of  well-doing. 
As  a  school-teacher,  she  was  often  fond  of  rehearsing  her  experiences, 
—  how  she  had  her  eye  on  Jim  or  Bob  through  weeks  of  growing 
carelessness  or  obstinacy  or  rebellion,  suffering  the  measure  of  in- 
iquity gradually  to  become  full,  until,  in  an  awful  hour,  she  pounced 
down  on  the  culprit  in  the  very  blossom  of  his  sin,  and  gave  him 
such  a  lesson  as  he  would  remember,  as  she  would  assure  him,  the 
longest  day  he  had  to  live. 

Tlie  burning  of  rebellious  thoughts  in  the  little  breast,  of  internal 
hatred  and  opposition,  could  not  long  go  on  without  slight  whiffs  of 


MRS.    STOWE.  285 

extrmnl  smoke,  such  ns  mark  the  course  of  subterranean  fire.  As  the 
chihl  grew  more  accustomed  to  Miss  Asphyxia,  while  her  hatred  of 
her  increase<l,  somewhat  of  that  native  hardihood  which  had  charac- 
terized her  happier  days  returnrd ;  and  she  bep:an  to  use  all  the 
subtlety  and  secretiveness  whicii  belonp^cd  to  her  feminine  nature  in 
contrivino^  how  not  to  do  the  will  of  her  tyrant,  r.nd  yet  not  to  seem 
desiji^nedly  to  oppose.  It  really  gave  the  child  a  new  impulse  in 
living  to  devise  little  plans  for  annoying  Miss  Asphyxia  without 
lx*ing  herself  detected.  In  all  her  daily  toils  she  made  nice  calcu- 
lations how  slow  she  could  possibly  lx^  how  blundering  and  awkward, 
witiiout  really  bringing  on  herself  a  punishment ;  and  when  an  acute 
and  capable  child  turns  all  its  faculties  in  such  a  direction,  the 
results  may  be  very  considerable. 

Miss  Asphyxia  found  many  things  going  wrong  in  her  establish- 
ment in  most  unaccountable  ways.  One  morning  her  sensibilities 
were  almost  paralyzed,  on  opening  her  milk-room  door,  to  tind  there, 
with  creamy  whiskers,  the  venerable  Tom,  her  own  model  cat,  —  a 
beast  M'ho  had  grown  up  in  the  very  sanctities  of  household  decorum, 
and  whom  she  was  sure  she  had  herself  shut  out  of  the  house,  with 
her  usual  punctuality,  at  nine  o'clock  the  evening  before.  She  could 
not  dream  that  he  had  been  enticed  through  Tina's  window,  caressed 
on  her  bed,  and  finally  sped  stealthily  on  his  mission  of  revenge, 
while  the  child  returned  to  her  pillow  to  gloat  over  her  success. 

Miss  Asphyxia  also,  in  more  than  one  instance,  in  her  rapid  gyra- 
tions, knocked  down  and  destroyed  a  valuable  bit  of  pottery  or  earth- 
enware, that  somehow  had  contrived  to  \ye  stationed  exactly  in  the 
wind  of  her  elbow  or  her  hand.  It  was  the  more  vexatious  because 
she  broke  them  herself.  And  the  child  assumed  stupid  innocence: 
"  How  could  she  know  Miss  Sphyxy  was  coming  that  way  ?  "  or, 
"  She  did  n't  see  her."  True,  she  caught  many  a  hasty  cuif  and 
shaq)  rebuke ;  but,  with  true  Indian  spirit,  she  did  not  mind  singeing 
her  own  fingers  if  she  only  tortured  her  enemy. 

It  would  be  an  endless  task  to  describe  the  many  vexations  that 
•  III  bt;  made  to  arise  in  the  course  of  household  experience  when  there 
IS  a  shrewd  little  elf  watching  with  sharpened  facultic's  for  every 
opportunity  to  inflict  an  annoyance  or  do  a  mischief.  In  childhood 
the  passions  move  with  a  simplieity  of  action  unknown  to  any  other 
period  of  life,  and  a  child's  hatred  and  a  child's  revenge  have  an 
intensity  of  bitterness  entirely  unalloyed  by  moral  considerations; 


286  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

and  when  a  child  is  without  an  object  of  affection,  and  feels  itself 
unloved,  its  whole  vigor  of  being  goes  into  the  channels  of  hate. 

Religious  instruction,  as  imparted  by  Miss  Asphyxia,  had  small 
influence  in  restraining  the  immediate  force  of  passion.  That  "  tli 
law  worketh  wrath  "  is  a  maxim  as  old  as  the  times  of  the  Apostlt  - 
The  image  of  a  dreadful  Judge  —  a  great  God,  with  ever-watchful 
eyes,  that  Miss  Asphyxia  told  her  about  —  roused  that  combative 
element  in  the  child's  heart  which  says  in  the  heart  of  the  fool, 
••  There  is  no  God."  "  After  all,"  thought  the  little  skeptic,  •*  how 
does  she  know?  She  never  saw  him."  Perhaps,  after  all,  then,  it 
might  be  only  a  fabrication  of  her  tyrant  to  frighten  her  into  submis- 
sion. There  was  a  dear  Father  that  mamma  used  to  tell  her  about ; 
and  perhaps  he  was  the  one,  after  all.  As  for  the  bear  story,  she  had 
a  private  conversation  with  Sol,  and  was  relieved  by  his  confident 
assurance  that  there  "  had  n't  been  no  bears  seen  round  in  them  parts 
these  ten  year  " ;  so  that  she  w^as  safe  in  that  reganl,  even  if  she 
should  call  Miss  Asphyxia  a  bald-head,  which  she  perfectly  longed  to 
do,  just  to  see  what  would  come  of  it. 

In  like  manner,  tho\igh  the  story  of  Ananias  and  Sapphira,  stnick 
down  dead  for  lying,  had  been  told  her  in  forcible  and  threatening 
tones,  yet  still  the  little  sinner  thought  within  herself  that  such  things 
must  have  ceased  in  our  times,  as  she  had  told  more  than  one  clever 
lie  which  neither  Miss  Asphyxia  nor  any  one  else  had  found  out. 

In  fact,  the  chihl  considered  herself  and  Miss  Asphyxia  as  in  a 
state  of  warfare  which  suspends  all  moral  rules.  In  the  stories  of 
little  girls  who  were  taken  captives  by  goblins  or  giants  or  witches, 
she  remembered  many  accounts  of  sagacious  deceptions  which  they 
had  practised  on  their  captors.  Her  very  blood  tingled  when  she 
thouoht  of  the  success  of  some  of  them,  —  how  Hensel  and  Qrettel 
had  heated  an  oven  red-hot,  and  persuaded  the  old  witch  to  get  into 
it  by  some  cock-and-bull  story  of  what  she  would  find  there ;  and 
how,  the  minute  she  got  in,  they  shut  up  the  oven  door  and  burnt  her 
all  up  !  Miss  Asphyxia  thought  the  child  a  vexatious,  careless, 
troublesome  little  baggage,  it  is  true  ;  but  if  she  could  have  looked 
into  her  heart  and  seen  her  imaginings,  she  would  probably  have 
thought  her  a  little  fiend. 

At  last,  one  day,  the  smothered  fire  broke  out.  The  child  had  had 
a  half-hour  of  holiday,  and  had  made  herself  happy  in  it  by  furbishing 
up  her  little  bedroom.     She  had  picked  a  peony,  a  yellow  lily,  and 


MES.   STOWE.  £87 

one  or  two  blue  irises,  from  the  spot  of  flowers  in  the  garden,  and  put 
them  in  a  tin  dipper  on  the  table  in  her  room,  and  ranged  around 
*  them  her  broken  bits  of  cliina,  her  red  berries  and  fragments  of  glass, 
in  various  zigzags.  The  spirit  of  adornment  thus  roused  within  her, 
she  remembered  having  seen  her  brother  make  pretty  garlands  of  oak- 
leaves  ;  and,  running  out  to  an  oak  hard  by,  she  stripped  oflF  an 
apronful  of  the  leaves,  and,  sitting  down  in  the  kitchen  door,  began 
her  attempts  to  plait  them  into  garlands.  She  grew  good-natured  and 
happy  as  she  wrought,  and  was  beginning  to  find  herself  in  charity 
even  with  Miss  Asphyxia,  when  down  came  that  individual,  broom  in 
hand,  looking  vengeful  as  those  old  Greek  Furies  who  used  to  haunt 
houses,  testifying  their  wrath  by  violent  sweeping. 

"  What  under  the  canopy  you  up  to  now,  making  such  »  litter  on 
my  kitchen  floor  ?  "  she  said.  "  Can't  I  leave  you  a  minute  'thout 
your  gettin'  into  some  mischief,  I  want  to  know  ?  Pick  'em  up,  every 
leaf  of  'em,  and  carry  'em  and  throw  'em  over  the  fence ;  and  don't 
you  never  let  me  find  you  bringing  no  such  rubbish  into  my  kitchen 
agin !  " 

In  this  unlucky  moment  she  turned,  and,  looking  into  the  little 
bedroom,  whose  door  stood  open,  saw  the  arrangements  there. 
"What!"  she  snid ;  "you  been  getting  down  the  tin  cup  to  put 
your  messes  into  ?  Take  'em  all  out !  "  she  said,  seizing  the  flowers 
with  a  grasp  that  cnimpled  them,  and  throwing  them  into  the  child's 
apron.  "  Take  'em  away,  every  one  of  'em  !  You  'd  get  everything 
out  of  place,  from  one  end  of  the  house  to  the  other,  if  I  did  n't  watch 
you !  "  And  forthwith  she  swept  off"  the  child's  treasures  into  her 
dust-pan. 

In  a  moment  all  the  smothered  wrath  of  weeks  blazed  up  in  the 
little  soul.  She  looked  as  if  a  fire  had  been  kindled  in  her  which 
reddened  her  cheeks  and  biu^ned  in  her  eyes ;  and,  nishing  blindly 
at  Miss  Asphyxia,  she  cried,  "  You  are  a  wicked  woman,  a  hateful  old 
witch,  and  I  hate  you  !  " 

"  Hity-tity !  I  thought  I  should  have  to  give  you  a  lesson  before 
long,  and  so  I  shall,"  said  Miss  Asphyxia,  seizing  her  with  stern 
determination.  "  You  *ve  needed  a  good  sound  whipping  for  a  long 
time,  miss,  and  you  arc  going  to  get  it  now.  I  '11  whip  you  so  that 
you  '11  remenil)er  it,  I  '11  promise  you." 

And  Miss  Asphyxia  kept  her  word,  though  the  child,  in  the  fury 
of  despair,  fought  her  with  tooth  and  nail,  and  proved  herself  quite  a 


288 

dangerous  little  animal ;  but  at  length  strength  got  the  better  in  the 
fray,  and,  sobbing,  though  unsubdued,  the  little  culprit  was  put  to 
bed  without  her  supper. 

In  those  days  the  literal  use  of  the  rod  in  the  education  of  children 
was  considered  as  a  direct  Bible  teaching.  The  wisest,  the  most 
loving  parent  felt  bound  to  it  in  many  cases,  even  though  every  stroke 
cut  into  his  own  heart.  The  laws  of  New  England  allowed  mast<  i^ 
to  correct  their  apprentices,  and  teachers  their  pupils,  —  and  even  tin 
public  whipping-post  was  an  institution  of  New  England  towns.  Jt 
is  not  to  be  supposed,  therefore,  that  Miss  Asphyxia  regarded  herself 
otherwise  than  as  thoroughly  performing  a  most  necessary  duty.  She 
was  as  ignorant  of  the  blind  agony  of  mingled  shame,  wrath,  sense  of 
degradation,  and  burning  for  revenge,  which  had  been  excited  by  her 
measures,  as  the"  icy  east-wind  of  Boston  flats  is  of  the  stinging  and 
shivering  it  causes  in  its  course.  There  is  a  class  of  coldly-conscien- 
tious, severe  persons,  who  still,  as  a  matter  of  duty  and  conscience, 
justify  measures  like  these  in  education.  Such  persons  are  commonly 
both  obtuse  in  sensibility  and  unimaginative  in  temperament ;  but  if 
their  imaginations  couhl  once  be  thoroughly  enlightened  to  see  the 
fiend-like  passions,  the  terrific  convulsions,  which  are  roused  in  a 
child's  soul  by  the  irritation  and  degradation  of  such  correction,  they 
would  shrink  back  appalled.  With  sensitive  children  left  in  the 
hands  of  stolid  and  unsympathizing  force,  such  convulsions  and  men- 
tal agonies  often  are  the  beginning  of  a  sort  of  slow  moral  insanity 
which  gradually  destroys  all  that  is  good  in  the  soul. 

As  the  child  lay  sobbing  in  a  little  convulsed  heap  in  her  bed,  a 
hard,  horny  hand  put  back  the  curtain  of  the  window,  and  the  child 
felt  something  throwTi  on  the  bed.  It  was  Sol,  who,  on  coming  in  to 
his  supper,  had  heard  from  Miss  Asphyxia  the  whole  story,  and  who, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  sympathized  entirely  with  the  child.  He  had 
contrived  to  slip  a  doughnut  into  his  pocket,  when  his  hostess  was 
looking  the  other  way.  "When  the  child  rose  up  in  the  bed  and 
showed  her  swelled  and  tear-stained  face,  Sol  whispered  :  *'  There  's  a 
doughnut  I  saved  for  ye.  Pon't  dare  say  a  word,  ye  know.  She  '11 
hear  me." 

The  child  was  comforted,  and  actually  went  to  sleep  hugging  the 
doughnut.  She  felt  as  if  she  loved  Sol,  and  said  so  to  the  doughnut 
many  times,  —  although  he  had  great  horny  fists,  and  eyes  like  oxen. 
With  these  he  had  a  heart  in  his  bosom,  and  the  child  loved  him. 


STEPHENS.  289 

STEPHENS. 
1812- 

Ai.r.XA?rDER  ttAXTtTOX  Stkpheks,  a  distinguished  statesman  and  political  writer,  was  1)ora 
IB  Taliaferro  County,  Georgia,  in  Februan',  lbl2.  Graduating  at  Franklin  Colli-i;e,  Georgia,  in 
1812,  he  studied  law,  and  in  1834  began  the  practice  of  his  profession  at  Craw  fords  v  ill  e,  in  the 
same  Stati*.  lie  soon  took  an  active  interest  in  politics,  and  served  for  six  successive  years  in 
the  State  L  gislature.  In  18^3  he  was  elected  to  the  National  House  of  Representatives,  of 
which  Imdy  he  continued  a  prominent  and  respected  member  till  the  end  of  the  Thirty-tifth  Con- 
gress, when  he  declined  a  re-election.  A  zealous  Whig,  so  long  as  that  party  existed,  on  its  dis- 
solution he  acted  with  the  Democrats,  and  supported  the  measures  of  the  Buchanan  adminis- 
tration. At  the  outbreak  of  the  late  civil  war  he  stoutly  opposed  secession,  as  a  question  of 
cxp'ilicncy,  though  he  defended  the  right  of  it.  In  February,  1861,  he  was  elected  Vic^-Presi- 
(Itnr  of  the  Confederacy,  under  the  Provisional  Constitution,  and  in  November  of  that  year  wa« 
cliostn  to  the  same  oftlce  under  the  regular  Constitution.  In  1873  he  was  elected  to  Congress 
as  a  lU-presentative  of  Georgia.  His  writings  have  l>een  almost  exclusively  on  political  subjects, 
and  the  chief  of  them  are  -.  A  CoHstilMlional  Vmr  of  Ihf  War  hetKeen  the  Stairs,  and  The  Rtviewert 
It'TirtcfJ,  a  reply  to  strictures  on  the  first-nanied  work.  He  is  also  the  author  of  J  Compendium 
of  Ihf  Uialory  of  the  Vnited  States.  Mr.  Stephens  possesses  a  very  acute  and  vigorous  intellect, 
ailmimbly  equipped  for  analytical  service,  and  for  careful  ratiocination.  He  has  been  an  earnest 
student  of  the  science  of  govemracnt,  and  his  writings  in  illustration  of  it  possess  great  philo- 
sophical value.  His  utterances  have  always  commanded  the  respectful  attention  of  his  political 
antagonists,  and  his  long  and  brilliant  public  career  has,  by  universal  consent,  given  him  a  title 
to  rank  among  the  foremost  of  American  statesmen. 

DECISION  AND  £N£B6T. 

For  success  in  life,  it  is  essential  that  there  should  be  a  fixedness 
of  purpose  as  to  the  object  and  designs  to  be  attained.  There  should 
l)e  a  clear  conception  of  the  outlines  of  that  character  which  is  to  be 
cstiiblishcd.  The  business  of  life,  in  whatever  pursuit  it  may  l)e  di- 
rected, is  a  great  work.  And  in  this,  as  in  all  other  undertjikings,  it 
is  important  in  the  outset  to  have  a  clear  conception  of  what  is  to  be 
done.  This  is  the  first  thing  to  be  settled.  What  profession,  what 
vocation,  is  to  Ix*  followed  ?  The  only  nde  for  determining  this  is 
natural  ability  and  natural  aptitude,  or  suitableness  for  the  pirticular 
business  selected.  The  decision  in  such  case  should  always  l)e  gov- 
crnetl  by  that  ideal  of  character  which  a  man,  with  liigh  aspirations, 
should  always  form  for  himself. 

The  artist  who  has  laid  b;'fore  him  the  huge  misshapen  block  of 
marble,  from  which  the  almost  living  and  breathing  statue  is  to  spring, 
under  the  operation  of  iiis  chisel,  first  has  the  ideiil  in  his  mind.  The 
magnificent  Temple  at  Jerusalem,  with  all  its  halls  and  porticos,  en- 
trances, stairways,  and  arches,  was  designed  by  Solomon,  in  all  its 
13  » 


290  cathcart's  literaey  reader. 

grand  proportions  and  arrangements,  before  the  foundation-stone  was 
laid.  The  first  thing  with  the  sculptor,  the  architect,  or  the  painter 
is  the  grand  design.  This  being  fixed,  everything  afterward  is  di- 
rected toward  its  perfect  consummation.  So  it  shouUl  be  with  the 
great  work  of  life.  When  the  course  is  determined  upon,  to  secure 
the  object  in  view  it  should  be  steadily  pursued.  You  will  pardon 
an  illustration  of  the  importance  of  this  consideration  by  a  reference 
to  an  incident  in  the  life  of  one  of  the  most  distinguished  men  of  our 
own  country.     I  allude  to  Mr.  Webster. 

He,  it  may  be  known  to  you,  was  the  son  of  a  New  Hampshire 
farmer  of  very  limited  means.  All  the  hopes  of  the  father  were  cen- 
tered in  his  son.  To  put  him  through  college  was  an  object  of  great 
desire  to  him.  This  he  succeeded  in  doing,  but  not  without  some 
pecuniary  embarrassment,  as  may  be  the  case  with  some  of  those 
fathers  whom  I  now  address,  in  their  ettbrts  to  give  an  education  to 
some  of  these  young  gentlemen  now  about  to  leave  this  sciit  of  learn- 
ing.* Before  young  Daniel  had  left  the  walls  of  his  Alma  Mater 
he  hatl  made  up  his  mind  to  devote  himself  to  the  law.  For  the  first 
year  after  his  graduation  he  taught  school  for  the  stipulated  salary  of 
three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time,  Avith 
this  small  capital  in  hand,  he  set  out  for  Boston  to  enter  upon  the 
course  that  he  had  marked  out  for  himself.  He  was  admitted  as  a 
student  of  law  in  the  office  of  a  distinguished  coimselor  in  that  city. 
Soon  after,  and  while  he  was  still  pursuing  his  studies,  the  clerkship  of 
the  Court  of  Common  Pleas  of  his  native  county  of  Hillsborough,  in 
New  Hampshire,  became  vacant.  The  emoluments  of  that  office  were 
about  fifteen  luuidred  dollars  per  annum.  Some  of  his  friends,  from 
the  best  of  motives,  no  doubt,  procured  the  fippointment  for  young 
Webster,  supposing  that  it  wouhl  l)e  very  acceptable  to  him.  The 
information  was  first  given  to  his  father,  and  he  was  requested  to 
forward  it  to  his  son.  The  father  was  delighted,  and  he  conveyed  the 
intelligence  to  the  son  in  language  that  left  no  doubt  of  his  earnest 
desire  for  its  prompt  acceptance.  Such  was  his  respect  for  the  feel- 
ings of  his  father,  that  Mr.  Webster  would  not  send  a  reply  in  -vmting, 
but  went  immediately,  in  person,  to  make  known  to  him  that  he  could 
not  accept  the  place.  This  he  did  by  gradually  unfolding  his  views 
end  inclinations  on  the  subject. 

•  The  extract  is  from  an  address  delivered  by  Mr.  Stephens  before  the  Literary  Societies  of 
Emory  College,  Oxford,  Georgia,  July  21, 1852. 


STEPHENS.  291 

"  What,"  said  the  father,  after  he  found  from  the  son's  conversa- 
tion that  he  was  speakinp:  against  accepting  the  place,  —  "  what,  do  you 
intend  to  decline  this  office?" 

••  Most  assuredly,"  replied  the  son,  when  the  question  came  direct, 
"  I  eannot  think  of  doing  othenvise." 

The  father  at  first  seeinedjingry  ;  then  assuming  the  air  of  one  who 
feels  the  pangs  of  disappointment  in  realizing  long-cherished  hopes, 
he  said,  "  Well,  my  son,  your  mother  always  said  that  you  would 
come  to  something  or  nothing ;  become  a  somebody  or  a  nobody." 
The  emphasis  showed  that  he  thought  his  son  was  about  to  become 
a  "  nolxxly." 

The  reply  of  the  son  was :  "  I  intend,  sir,  to  use  my  tongue  in 
court,  and  not  my  pen  ;  to  be  an  actor,  and  not  a  register  of  other 
men's  actions." 

Nobly  has  that  pledge  been  redeemed. 

The  decision  with  Webster,  though  young,  as  to  his  future  course, 
had  been  made.  The  ideal  of  that  character  which  he  desired  to 
establish  ha<l  l)ecn  formed.  And  to  the  fixedness  of  purpose  with 
which  he  adhered  to  it  on  that  ti-ying  occasion,  when  the  strongest 
inducements  of  parental  entreaty  and  pecuniary  gain  were  presented 
to  divert  him  from  it,  the  world  is  indebted  for  that  name  and  fame 
which  are  the  pride  and  admiration  of  his  countrymen,  and  that  tow- 
ering reputation  which  sends  its  light  and  effulgence  to  the  remotest 
H'gions  of  civilization. 

Another  example  of  the  same  principle  of  fixedness  of  purpose  may 
be  given  in  the  character  of  Mr.  Calhoun,  who  was  so  long  one  of 
Mr.  Webster's  most  distinguished  rivals  in  the  Senate  of  the  United 
States.  Tljcy  Iwth  enteretl  life  about  the  same  time,  though  under 
very  different  circumstances.  And  the  lives  of  Imth  affonl  striking 
illustrations  of  that  element  of  character  of  which  I  am  now  speaking. 
Mr.  Calhoun  from  his  earliest  youth  fixed  his  mind  upon  politics. 
Not  the  arts  and  tricks  and  chicanery  of  the  mere  politician  or  diplo- 
matist, but  what  may  be  more  pr()p<*rly  termed  the  science  of  govern- 
ment ;  the  knowledge  and  thorough  understjinding  of  those  principles 
and  laws  of  human  action  which  lie  at  the  foundation  of  all  civil 
society,  in  whatever  form  it  may  l>e  found  ;  and  the  regulations  and 
modifications  of  which  are  necessary  for  the  surest  enjoyment  of 
rational  constitutional  lilvrty. 

In  no  branch  of  learning,  perhaps,  has  mankind  been  slower  in 


their  progress  than  in  understanding  the  true  principles  of  govern- 
ment, the  origin  of  its  necessity,  the  sanction  of  its  obligations,  to- 
gether with  the  correlative  powers  and  duties  of  those  who  govern 
and  tliose  who  are  governed. 

To  this  most  abstruse  subject,  which  had  engaged  so  much  of  tlie 
time  and  attention  of  the  profoundest  thinkers  that  the  world  ever 
produced,  the  great  Carolinian  brought  all  the  energies  of  his  subtile 
and  powerful  intellect.  It  seems  to  have  been  the  absorbing  theme 
of  his  life.  Nothing  diverted  him  from  it.  To  master  it  was  his 
object.  Nor  was  he  unequal  to  the  work  undertaken.  All  questions 
of  public  policy,  whether  in  tlie  cabinet  or  in  tlie  legislative  councils, 
seem  to  have  been  considered,  examined,  and  analyzed  by  him  accord- 
ing to  the  strictest  principles  of  abstract  philosophy.  But  his  labors 
were  not  confined  to  the  consideration  and  investigation  of  temporary 
questions  connected  with  the  administration  of  his  own  government. 
His  objects  were  higher.  His  purposes  were  more  comprehensive. 
He  looked  to  achievements  more  permanent,  as  well  as  more  substan- 
tial, than  the  acquisition  of  those  transitory  honors  which  accompany 
a  forensic  display  or  a  triumphant  reply  in  debate.  To  such  an  end 
his  efforts  for  years  wTre  directed.  The  result  was  the  production  of 
a  Treatise,  or  Disquisition  as  he  calls  it,  on  Government,  which  has 
been  published  since  his  death,  and  which,  though  it  has  as  yet  pro- 
duced but  little  sensation  in  the  public  mind,  at  no  distant  day  will 
doubtless  be  regarded  as  the  crowning  glory  of  his  illustrious  life. 
This  treatise  has  no  particular  reference  to  the  government  of  the 
United  States ;  but  it  discusses  the  elements  and  principles  of  all 
forms  of  government,  —  reduces  them  to  system  and  the  rules  of 
science. 

I  have  one  other  point  only  to  present ;  that  is,  energj'  in  execution. 
By  this  I  mean  application,  attention,  activity,  perseverance,  and 
untiring  industry  in  that  business  or  pursuit,  whatever  it  may  be,  that 
is  undertaken.  Nothing  great  or  good  can  ever  be  accomplished  with- 
out labor  and  toil.  Motion  is  the  law  of  living  nature.  Inaction  is  the 
symbol  of  death,  if  it  is  not  death  itself.  The  hugest  engines,  with 
strength  and  capacity  sufficient  to  drive  the  mightiest  ships  "across  the 
stormy  deep,"  are  utterly  useless  without  a  moving  power.  Energy 
is  the  steam  power,  the  motive  principle,  of  intellectual  capacity.  It  is 
the  propelling  force  ;  and  as  in  physics,  momentum  is  resolvable  into 
quantity  of  matter  and  velocity,  so  in  metaphysics,  the  extent  of  hu- 


STEPHENS.  293 

man  accomplishment  may  be  resolvable  into  the  degree  of  intellectual 
endowment  and  the  energy  with  which  it  is  directed.  A  small  l)ody 
driven  by  a  great  force  will  produce  a  result  equal  to,  or  even  greater 
tiian,  tliat  of  a  much  larger  body  moved  by  a  considerably  less  force. 
So  it  is  with  minds.  Hence  we  often  see  men  of  comparatively  small 
capacity,  by  greater  eiiei^y  alone,  leave,  and  justly  leave,  their  supe- 
riors in  natural  gifts  far  behind  them  in  the  race  for  honors,  distinc- 
tion, and  preferment. 

This  is,  perhaps,  the  most  striking  characteristic  of  those  great 
minds  and  intellects  which  never  fail  to  impress  their  names,  their 
views,  ideas,  and  opinions,  indelibly  upon  the  history  of  the  times  in 
which  they  live.  To  this  class  belong  Columbus,  Luther,  Cromwell, 
Watt,  Fulton,  Franklin,  and  Washington.  It  was  to  the  same  class 
that  General  Jackson  belonged.  He  had  not  only  a  clear  conception 
of  his  purpose,  but  a  will  and  energy  to  execute  it.  And  it  is  in  the 
same  class,  or  amongst  the  tirst  order  of  men,  that  Henry  Clay  will  be 
assigned  a  place ;  that  great  man  whose  recent  loss  the  nation  still 
mourns.  Mr.  Chiy's  success,  and  those  civic  achievements  which 
will  render  his  name  as  lasting  as  the  history  of  his  country,  were  the 
residt  of  nothing  so  much  as  that  element  of  character  which  I  have 
denominated  energy.  Thrown  upon  life  at  an  early  age,  without  any 
means  or  resources  save  his  natural  powers  and  abilities,  and  without 
the  advantages  of  anything  above  a  common-school  education,  he  had 
nothing  to  rely  upon  but  himself,  and  nothing  upon  which  to  place 
a  hope  but  his  own  exertions.  But,  fired  with  a  high  and  noble  am- 
bition, he  resolved,  as  young  as  he  was,  and  cheerless  as  were  his 
prospects,  to  meet  and  surmount  every  emlmn-assment  and  obstacle 
by  which  he  was  surrounded.  His  aims  and  objects  were  high,  and 
worthy  the  greatest  efforts ;  they  were  not  to  secure  the  laurels  won 
tipon  the  Iwttle-field,  but  those  wTcaths  which  adorn  the  brow  of  the 
wise,  the  firm,  the  sagacious  and  far-seeing  statesman.  The  honor 
and  glory  of  his  life  was,  — 

•'Th'  applause  of  lisfning  arnates  to  rommand, 
The  threat*  of  pain  and  min  to  despise. 
To  srattrr  plenty  o'er  a  smilinp  land. 
And  read  his  history  in  a  nation's  eyes." 

This  great  end  he  most  successfidly  accomplished.  In  his  life 
and  character  you  have  a  most  striking  example  of  what  enei^  and 
indomitable  perseverance  can  do,  even  when  opposed  by  the  most 
adverse  circumstances. 


'Zd-i  C ATI! cart's    MTERAEY    R£A0£E. 

BEECHER. 

1813- 

HnrtT  Waed  Beechkb,  the  most  distinguished  prntrher  of  his  day,  not  onlr  in  America,  but 
in  the  world,  was  bom  at  LitchAeld,  Connecticut,  in  1813.  He  is  the  son  of  Rev.  Dr.  Lyman 
Beecher,  himself  a  clergyman  of  positive  character  and  commanding  abilities,  and  is  one 
of  a  large  family  of  brothers  and  sisters,  each  of  Mhom  has  won  distinction  in  literature  or 
the  pulpit  Henry  Ward  graduated  at  Amherst  College  in  1834,  and  in  IS*!?  was  settled  as  pas- 
tor of  a  Presbyterian  church  at  Lawrenceburgh,  Indiana.  Two  years  later  he  removed  to  Ii 
dianapoli*,  whence  the  first  glimmer  of  his  great  genius  surprised  and  fascinated  the  puM 
After  eight  years'  service  at  this  post,  be  accepted  a  call  to  the  pastorate  of  Plymouth  Chui<  : 
Brooklyn.  «hich  is  still  the  theater  of  his  labors.  His  rank  as  a  pulpit  orator  has  already  In 
indicated  b  the  first  lines  of  this  paragraph.  In  that  character  lie  has  won  his  fame,  and  in 
be  «'ill  go  down  in  history  with  Massillon  and  Boasuet,  and  the  great  preachers  of  the  English 
Church.  His  connection  with  literature  is  almost  exclusively  ria  the  pulpit ;  what  he  speaks  to 
attentive  thousands  in  his  church  reappears  in  his  many  books,  lacking,  it  is  true,  the  magnetic 
and  intensifying  cfaanu  of  his  personal  presence,  yet  instinct  and  eloqnent  with  the  lofty  thoughts 
and  the  noble  catholicity  «'hich  are  fundamental  constituents  of  his  nature.  The  limitations 
which  restrict  this  notice  forbid  any  adequate  analysis  of  the  sources  of  his  power ;  but  it  may 
be  suggested  that  Mr.  Beecher's  success  as  a  moral  teacher  is  largely  due  to  the  practical  and 
sympathetic  qualities  of  his  mind.  He  knows  how  to  put  himself  in  direct  rapport  with  his 
hearers  or  readers,  knows  their  needs,  their  modes  of  thinking;  puts  himself  in  their  place,  in 
fact,  and  manipulates  an  audioice  of  thousands  as  easily  and  cfTectively  as  he  would  conduct  his 
part  of  a  colloquy.  A  briefer  idlnitkl  of  his  exceptional  intellectual  equipment  would  be,  — a 
marvelous  knowledge  of  human  nature,  touching  which  he  would  almost  seem  to  have  received  a 
special  illumination.  In  his  sermons  and  addresses  every  one  recognizes  a  personal  application, 
so  many-sided  and  many-eyed  is  II  r.  Beecher's  mind  ;  be  speaks  not  merely  to  those  in  his  pres- 
ence, but  to  all  humanity.  His  first  book,  Lectmret  to  YoMmg  Men,  was  published  in  1850,  and 
has  passed  throngh  nearly  a  score  of  editions.  The  Star  Papers,  First  and  Second  Series,  two 
volumes  made  up  of  his  contributi<ms  to  a  New  York  weekly  pafter,  and  Life  Tkoughtx,  a  collec- 
tion of  extracts  from  his  extemporaneous  sermons,  have  had  gnat  popularity.  Within  a  year 
has  been  issued  his  Vale  Lectures  on  Preaching,  a  series  of  vigorous  and  suggestive  discourses  de- 
livered before  the  students  of  the  Yale  Divinity  School.  Mr.  Beecher's  most  ambitious  literary 
work  is  Tlie  Life  of  Jesus,  the  Christ,  wliich  is  still  unfinished,  only  one  volume  having  been 
published.  One  of  the  most  noteworthy  advantages  possessed  by  Mr.  Beecher  is  his  power  of 
adapting  his  style  to  his  subject.  Our  extracts  illustrate  this,  and  an  examination  of  other  speci- 
mens of  his  composition  would  disclose  a  still  wider  range  of  his  versatility.  His  homiletic  style 
is  simple,  yet  singularly  vigorous,  compact  in  form,  yet  euphonious  and  flowing;  his  rhetoric  is 
marked  by  frequent  illustrations  drawn  from  universal  knowledge  or  experience,  and  by  occa- 
sional passages  of  dramatic  fervor  and  picturesque  beauty.  But  in  all  his  writings  all  con- 
siderations are  held  strictly  subordinate  to  strength  and  substance. 

THE  MONTHS. 

1.  January!  Darkness  and  light  reign  alike.  Snow  is  on  the 
ground.  Cold  is  in  the  air.  The  winter  is  blossoming  in  frost- 
flowers.  Why  is  the  ground  hidden  ?  Why  is  the  earth  white  ?  So 
hath  God  wMped  out  the  past,  so  hath  he  spread  the  earth  like  an  un- 
written page  for  a  new  year !  Old  sounds  are  silent  in  the  forest  and 
in  the  air.     Insects  are  dead,  birds  are  gone,  leaves  have  perished,  and 


BEECHER.  295 

all  the  foundations  of  soil  remain.  Upon  this  lies,  white  and  tran- 
quil, the  emblem  of  newness  and  purity,  the  virgin  robes  of  the  yet 
unstained  year. 

2.  Febru.\ry  !  The  day  gains  upon  the  night.  The  strife  of 
luiat  and  cold  is  scarce  begun.  The  winds  that  come  from  the  deso- 
late nortli  wander  through  forests  of  frost-erackiiig  boughs,  and  shout 
in  the  air  the  weird  cries  of  the  northern  bergs  and  ice-resounding 
oceans.  Yet,  as  the  month  wears  on,  the  silent  work  begins,  though 
storms  rage.  The  earth  is  hidden  yet,  but  not  dead.  The  sun  is 
drawing  near.  The  storms  cry  out.  But  the  Sun  is  not  heard  in  all 
the  heavens.  Yet  he  whispers  words  of  deliverance  into  the  ears  of 
every  sleeping  seed  and  root  that  lies  Ixjueath  the  snow.  The  tlay 
opens ;  but  the  night  shuts  the  earth  with  its  frost-lock.  They  strive 
together;  but  the  darkness  ami  the  cold  are  giowing  weaker.  On 
some  nights  they  forget  to  work. 

3.  March!  The  conflict  is  more  turbulent;  but  the  victory  is 
irained.  The  world  awakes.  There  come  voices  from  long-hidden 
birds.  The  smell  of  the  soil  is  in  the  air.  The  sullen  ice,  retreating 
from  open  field  and  all  sunny  places,  has  slunk  to  the  north  of  every 
fence  and  rock.  The  knolls  and  banks  that  face  the  east  or  south 
sigh  for  rcleiisi',  and  begin  to  lift  up  a  thousand  tiny  palms. 

4.  April!  The  singing  month.  Many  voices  of  many  birds  call 
for  resurrection  over  the  graves  of  flowers,  and  they  come  forth.  Go 
see  what  they  have  lost.  What  have  ice  and  snow  and  storm  done 
unto  them?  How  did  they  fall  into  the  earth  stripped  and  bare?  — 
how  do  they  come  forth  opening  and  glorified  ?  Is  it,  then,  so  fearful 
a  thing  to  lie  in  the  grave  ?  In  its  wild  career,  shaking  and  scourged 
of  storms  through  its  orbit,  the  earth  has  scattered  away  no  treasures. 
The  Hand  that  governs  in  April  governed  in  January.  You  have  not 
lost  what  God  has  only  hidden.  You  lose  nothing  in  struggle,  in 
trial,  in  bitter  distress.  If  called  to  shed  thy  joys  as  trees  their  leaves, 
if  the  affi'ctions  be  driven  Ixaek  into  the  heart  as  the  life  of  flowers  to 
their  roots,  yet  be  pjitient.  Thou  shalt  lift  up  thy  leaf-covered  boughs 
ii^in.  Thou  shalt  shoot  forth  from  thy  roots  new  flowers.  Be  pa- 
tient. Wait.  When  it  is  February',  April  is  not  far  off".  Secretly 
the  plants  love  each  other. 

5.  M,\Y  !  O  flowtr-month!  perfect  the  harvests  of  flowers;  be 
not  niggardly.  Search  out  the  cold  and  resentful  nooks  that  refused 
the  8UU,  casting  back  its  rays  from  disdainful  ice,  and  plant  flowers 


296  CATUCART\s    LilhUAUV    lihADtK. 

even  there.  There  is  goodness  in  the  worst.  There  is  warmth  in 
the  coldness.  The  silent,  hopeful,  unbreathing  sun,  that  will  not 
fret  or  despond,  but  carries  a  placid  brow  through  the  unwrinkled 
heavens,  at  length  conquers  the  very  rocks  ;  and  lichens  grow,  and 
inconspicuously  blossom.  What  shall  not  Time  do  that  carries  in  its 
bosom  Love  ? 

6.  Jlne  !  Rest!  This  is  the  year's  bower.  Sit  down  within  it. 
Wipe  from  thy  brow  the  toil.  The  elements  are  thy  servants.  The 
dews  bring  thee  jewels.  The  winds  bring  perfume.  The  Earth 
shows  thee  all  her  treasure.  The  forests  sing  to  thee.  The  air  is  all 
sweetness,  as  if  all  the  angels  of  God  had  gone  through  it,  bearing 
spices  homeward.  The  storms  are  but  as  flocks  of  mighty  birds  that 
spread  their  wings,  and  sing  in  the  high  heaven.  Speak  to  God  now, 
and  say,  "  O  Father  !  where  art  thou  ?  "  and  out  of  every  flower  and 
tree,  and  silver  pool,  and  twined  thicket,  a  voice  will  come,  **  Gtxl  is 
in  me."  The  earth  cries  to  the  heavens,  *'  God  is  here !  "  and  the 
heavens  cry  to  the  earth,  "  God  is  here  !  "  The  sea  claims  him.  The 
knd  hath  him.  His  footsteps  are  upon  the  deep.  He  sitteth  upon 
the  circle  of  the  earth.  O  sunny  joys  of  the  sunny  month,  yet  soft  and 
temperate,  how  soon  will  the  eager  months  that  come  burning  from 
the  equator  scorch  you ! 

7.  July  !  Rouse  up  !  The  temperate  heats  that  filled  the  air  are 
raging  forward  to  glow  and  overfill  the  earth  with  hotness.  Must  it 
be  thus  in  everything,  that  June  shall  rush  toward  August  ?  Or  is  it 
not  that  there  are  deep  and  unreached  places  for  whose  sake  the  prob- 
ing sun  pierces  down  its  glowing  hands  ?  There  is  a  deeper  work 
than  June  can  perform.  The  Earth  shall  drink  of  the  heat  Ijefore  she 
knows  her  nature  or  her  strength.  Then  shall  she  bring  forth  to  the 
uttermost  the  treasures  of  her  bosom  ;  for  there  are  things  hidden  far 
down,  and  the  deep  things  of  life  are  not  known  till  the  fire  reveals 
them. 

8.  August!  Reign,  thou  fire-month!  What  canst  thou  do? 
Neither  shalt  thou  destroy  the  earth,  whom  frosts  and  ice  could  not 
destroy.  The  vines  droop,  the  trees  stagger,  the  broad-palmed  leaves 
give  thee  their  moisture,  and  hang  down ;  but  every  night  the  dew 
pities  them.  Yet  there  are  flowers  that  look  thee  in  the  eye,  fierce 
Sun,  all  day  long,  and  wink  not.  This  is  the  rejoicing  month  for 
joyful  insects.  If  our  unselfish  eye  would  behold  it,  it  is  the  most 
populous  and  the  happiest  month.     The  herds  plash  in  the  sedge ;  fish 


BEECUER.  297 

seek  the  deeper  pools ;  forest  fowl  lead  out  their  young ;  the  air  is 
resonant  of  insect  orchestras,  each  one  airryinj^  his  part  in  Nature's 
jjrand  luirmony.  August,  thou  art  the  ripeness  of  the  year !  Thou 
art  the  glowing  center  of  the  circle  ! 

9.  September!  There  are  thoughts  in  thy  he;irt  of  death.  Thou 
art  doing  a  secret  work,  and  heaping  up  treasures  for  another  year. 
The  unborn  infant-buds  wliieh  thou  art  tending  are  more  than  all  the 
living  leaves.  Thy  robes  are  luxuriant,  but  worn  with  softened  pride. 
More  dear,  less  beautiful,  than  June,  thou  art  the  heart's  month. 
Not  till  the  heats  of  summer  are  gone,  while  all  its  growths  remain, 
do  we  know  the  fullness  of  life.  Thy  hands  are  stretched  out,  and 
clasp  the  glowing  palm  of  August  and  the  fruit-smelling  hand  of 
October.  Thou  dividest  them  asunder,  and  art  thyself  molded  of 
them  both. 

10.  October!  Orchard  of  the  year,  bend  thy  bouglis  to  the 
earth,  retlolent  of  glowing  fruit  I  Ripened  seeds  sliake  in  their  pods. 
Apples  drop  in  the  stillest  hours.  Leaves  begin  to  let  go  wlun  no 
wind  is  out,  and  swing  in  long  waverings  to  the  earth,  which  they 
touch  without  sound,  and  lie  looking  up,  till  winds  rake  them,  and 
h(yip  them  in  fence-corners.  When  the  gjdes  come  through  the  trees, 
the  yellow  leaves  trail  like  sparks  at  night  behind  the  flying  engine. 
The  wootls  are  thinner,  so  that  we  can  see  the  heavens  plainer  as  we 
lie  dreaming  on  the  yet  warm  moss  by  the  singing  spring.  The  days 
are  calm.  The  nights  are  tranquil.  The  Year's  work  is  done.  She 
walks  in  gorgeous  apparel,  looking  upon  her  long  labor;  and  her 
serene  eye  saith,  "It  is  good." 

11.  November!  Patient  watcher,  thou  art  asking  to  lay  down 
thy  tasks.  Life  to  thee  now  is  only  a  task  accomplished.  In  the 
night-time  thou  liest  down,  and  the  messengers  of  winter  deck 
thee  with  hoar-frosts  for  thy  burial.  The  morning  looks  upon  thy 
jewels,  and  they  perish  while  it  gazes.  Wilt  thou  not  come,  O 
December  ? 

12.  Decbmbsb  !  Silently  the  month  advances.  There  is  nothing 
to  destroy,  but  much  to  bury.  Bury  then,  thou  snow,  that  sluraber- 
ously  fallest  through  the  stUl  air,  the  hedge-rows  of  leaves !  Muffle 
thy  coUl  wool  al)out  the  feet  of  shivering  trees !  Bury  all  that  the 
year  hath  known  !  and  let  thy  brilliant  stars,  that  never  shine  as  they 
do  in  thy  frostiest  nights,  behold  the  work!  But  know,  O  month  of 
destruction !  that  in  thy  constellation  is  set  that  Star,  whose  rising  is 

18« 


;i98  cathcaht's   i,iii.i;ai;\    kladlh. 

the  sign,  forevermore,  that  there  is  life  iu  death.  Thou  art  the 
month  of  resurrection.  In  thee  the  Christ  came.  Every  star  that 
looks  down  upon  thy  labor  and  toil  of  burial  knows  that  all  thin 
shall  come  forth  again.  Storms  shall  sob  themselves  to  sleep,  fei- 
lence  shall  find  a  voice.  Death  shall  live  ;  Life  shall  rejoice ;  Winter 
shall  break  forth,  and  blossom  into  Spring ;  Spring  shall  put  on  her 
glorious  apparel,  and  be  called  Summer.  It  is  life,  it  is  life,  throui!:li 
the  whole  year ! 

COMING  AWD  GOING. 

Once  came  to  our  fields  a  pair  of  birds  that  had  never  built  a 
nest  nor  seen  a  winter.  O,  how  beautiful  was  everything!  The 
fields  were  full  of  fiowers,  and  the  grass  was  growing  tall,  and  the 
bees  were  humming  everywhere.  Then  one  of  the  birds  fell  to  sing- 
ing ;  and  the  other  bird  said,  "  Who  told  you  to  sing  ?  "  And  he  an- 
swered, "  The  flowers  told  me,  and  the  bees  told  me,  and  the  winds 
and  leaves  told  me,  and  the  blue  sky  told  me,  and  you  told  me  to 
sing."  Then  his  mate  answered,  "  When  did  I  tell  you  to  sing  ?  " 
And  he  said,  "Every  time  you  brought  in  tender  grass  for  the  nest, 
and  every  time  your  soft  wings  fluttered  off  again  for  hair  and  feath- 
ers to  line  the  nest."  Then  his  mate  said,  "  What  are  you  singing 
about  ?  "  And  he  answered,  **  I  am  singing  about  everything  and 
nothing.     It  is  because  I  am  so  happy  that  I  sing." 

By  and  by,  five  little  speckled  eggs  were  in  the  nest;  and  his 
mate  said,  *'  Is  there  anything  in  all  the  world  as  pretty  as  my  eggs  ?  " 
Then  they  both  looked  down  on  some  people  that  were  passing  by, 
and  pitied  them  because  they  were  not  biitls,  and  had  no  nests  with 
eggs  in  them.  Then  the  father-bird  sang  a  melancholy  song  because 
he  pitied  folks  that  had  no  nests,  but  had  to  live  in  houses. 

In  a  week  or  two,  one  day,  when  the  father-bird  came  home,  the 
mother-bird  said,  '*  O,  what  do  you  think  has  happened  ?  "  "  What  ?  " 
"  One  of  my  eggs  has  been  peeping  and  moving  !  "  Pretty  soon  an- 
other egg  moved  under  her  feathers,  and  then  another  and  another,  till 
five  little  birds  were  born. 

Now  the  father-bird  sung  louder  and  louder  than  ever.  The  mother- 
bird,  too,  wanted  to  sing ;  but  she  had  no  time,  and  so  she  turned 
her  song  into  work.  So  hungry  were  these  little  birds,  that  it  kept 
both  parents  busy  feeding  them.  Away  each  one  flew.  The  moment 
the  little  birds  heard  their  wings  fluttering  again  among  the  leaves, 


BEECHER.  299 

five  yellow  mouths  flew  open  so  wide  that  nothing  could  be  seen  but 
fi?e  yellow  mouths. 

"  Can  auyboily  be  happier  ?  "  said  the  father-bird  to  the  mother- 
bird.  '*  We  will  live  in  this  tree  always ;  for  there  is  no  sorrow  here. 
It  is  a  tree  that  always  bears  joy." 

The  very  next  day  one  of  the  birds  dropped  out  of  the  nest,  and  a 
cat  ate  it  up  in  a  minute,  and  only  four  remained  ;  and  the  parent- 
birds  were  very  sad,  and  there  was  no  song  all  that  day  nor  the  next. 
Soon  the  little  birds  were  big  enough  to  fly ;  and  great  was  their 
jmrents'  joy  to  see  them  leave  the  nest,  and  sit  crumpled  up  upon 
the  branches.  There  was  then  a  great  time.  One  would  liave  thought 
the  two  old  birds  were  two  French  dancing-masters,  talking  and  chat- 
tering, and  scolding  the  little  birds  to  make  them  go  alone.  The 
first  bird  that  tried  flew  from  one  branch  to  another,  and  the  parents 
praised  him  ;  and  the  other  little  birds  wondered  how  he  did  it.  And 
he  was  so  vain  of  it  that  he  tried  again,  and  flew  and  flew,  and  could 
n't  stop  flying,  till  he  fell  plump  down  by  the  house-door;  and  then 
a  little  boy  caught  him  and  carried  him  into  the  house,  and  only  three 
birds  were  left.  Then  the  old  birds  thought  that  the  sun  was  not 
as  bright  as  it  used  to  be,  and  they  did  not  sing  as  often. 

In  a  little  time  the  other  birds  had  learned  to  use  their  wings ;  and 
they  flew  away  and  away,  and  found  their  own  food,  and  made  their 
own  beds  ;  and  their  parents  never  saw  them  any  more. 

Then  the  old  birds  sat  silent,  and  looked  at  each  other  a  long 
while. 

At  last  the  wife-bird  said,  — 

"  Why  don't  you  sing?  " 

And  he  answered,  — 

'*  I  can't  sing  :  I  can  only  thiiik  and  think." 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of?  " 

"  I  am  thinking  how  everything  changes.  The  leaves  are  falling 
down  from  off"  this  tree,  and  soon  there  will  \)c  no  roof  over  our  heads ; 
the  flowers  are  all  gone,  or  going;  last  night  there  was  a  frost;  al- 
most all  the  birds  are  flown  away,  and  I  am  very  uneasy.  Something 
calls  me,  and  I  feel  restless  as  if  I  would  fly  far  away." 

"  I^'t  us  fly  away  together !  " 

Then  tliey  rose  silently ;  and,  lifting  themselves  far  up  in  the  air, 
they  looked  to  the  north  :  far  away  they  saw  the  snow  coming.  They 
looked  to  the  south  :  there  they  saw  green  leaves.     All  day  they  flew, 


300  cathcart's  literaky  reader. 

and  all  night  they  flew  and  flew,  till  they  found  a  land  where  there 
was  no  winter ;  where  there  was  summer  all  the  time ;  where  flowers 
always  blossom,  and  birds  always  sing. 

But  the  birds  that  staid  behind  found  the  days  shorter,  the  nights 
longer,  and  the  weather  colder.  Many  of  them  died  of  cold  ;  others 
crept  into  crevices  and  holes,  and  lay  torpid.  Then  it  was  pkin  that 
it  was  better  to  go  than  to  stay. 

PUBITY  OF  CHAEACTER. 

Oyer  the  plum  and  apricot  there  may  be  seen  a  bloom  and  beauty 
more  exquisite  than  the  fruit  itself,  —  a  soft,  delicate  flush  tliat  over- 
spreads its  blushing  cheek.  Now,  if  you  strike  your  hand  over  that. 
and  it  is  once  gone,  it  is  gone  forever ;  for  it  never  grows  but  one  ■ 
The  flower  that  hangs  in  the  morning,  impearled  with  dew,  arrayea 
with  jewels,  —  once  shake  it  so  that  the  beads  roll  off",  and  you  may 
sprinkle  water  over  it  as  you  please,  yet  it  can  never  be  made  cgaiii 
what  it  was  when  the  dew  fell  lightly  upon  it  from  heaven. 

On  a  frosty  morning  you  may  see  the  panes  of  glass  covered  witli 
landscapes,  mountains,  lakes,  and  trees,  blended  in  a  l)eantifnl  fantas- 
tic picture.  Now,  lay  your  hand  upon  the  glass,  and  by  tUe  scratch 
of  your  fingers,  or  by  the  warmth  of  the  palm,  all  the  delicate  tracery 
will  be  immediately  obliterated.  So  in  youth  there  is  a  purity  of 
character  which,  when  once  touched  and  defiled,  can  never  be  restored, 
—  a  fringe  more  delicate  than  frostwork,  and  which,  when  torn  and 
broken,  will  never  be  re-embroidered. 

A  man  who  has  spotted  and  soiled  his  garments  in  youth,  though 
he  may  seek  to  make  them  white  again,  can  never  wholly  do  it,  even 
were  he  to  wash  them  with  his  tears.  When  a  young  man  leaves  his 
father's  house,  with  the  blessing  of  his  mother's  tears  still  wet  upon 
his  forehead,  if  he  once  loses  that  early  purity  of  character,  it  is  a  loss 
he  can  never  make  whole  again.  Such  is  the  consequence  of  crime. 
Its  effects  cannot  be  eradicated,  they  can  only  be  forgiven. 


DANA.  301 

DANA. 
1813- 

Pkotkssok  Jahks  Pwioht  Dajt a,  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  American  geologists  and  natu- 
ralists, was  bom  at  Utica,  New  York,  in  1813.  At  the  age  of  twenty  he  graduated  at  Yale 
College,  where  he  was  distinguished  for  his  scientific  tastes  and  attainments.  Demoting  him- 
•elf  ««iiid«onslT  to  this  specialty  in  knowledge,  he  soon  acquired  a  reputation  which  justified 
'  !  nt  to  be  the  geologist  and  mineralogist  of  Commodore  Wilkes's  Exploring  Expc- 

11 1  by  the  United  States  government  in  18:i8.     During  his  four  years'  absence  in 

he  gathered  materials  for  some  of  the  most  notable  contributions  that  have  ever 

turn  niadf  to  the  literature  of  science.  Among  these  are  his  Report  on  Zoophytes,  Report  on 
the  Ce.,l...i>i  nf  the  Paeifie,  and  Report  on  Crustacea.  Tlie  amount  of  latjor  demanded  by  the 
prepanitiim  of  these  Reports  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that  they  comprised  S.IOO  pn<res 
of  text,  in  quarto  form,  and  178  plates  in  folio.  Prior  to  his  departure  with  this  expedition 
he  published  his  System  of  Mineralogy,  the  fourth  edition  of  which  was  issuetl  in  iHiii,  and  the 
descriptive  part  of  the  fifth,  in  18C8.  In  1850  he  wa-s  called  to  the  chair  of  Natural  History  and 
Geology  at  Yale  College,  but  did  not  begin  its  occupancy  until  five  years  later.  Since  184<>  he 
has  been  a  principal  editor  of  the  American  Journal  of  S<-iencc.  Professor  Dana's  Manual  of 
Geoloffy,  a  new  and  thoroughly  revised  edition  of  which  has  recently  l>ecn  issued,  is  a  standard 
text-)>ook,  not  only  in  this  country,  but  in  Europe.  His  latest  work  is  a  volume  entitled  Corals 
and  Coral  Islands.  Professor  Dana  has  long  been  recognized  in  the  scientific  circles  of  Europe 
as  one  of  the  foremost  living  naturalists  -,  he  is  a  member  of  many  English  and  Continental 
scientific  societies,  and  last  year  received  the  high  compliment  of  an  election  to  membership  in 
the  French  Academy.  Professor  Dana's  fame  rests  upon  the  sound  basis  of  practical  achieve- 
nirnt  llr  Im^  Jirrn  n  linnl  student  and  a  close  observer  of  nature,  and  his  special  qualifi- 
cntions  trir  <ri(iitiiir  iiiv  ( -ji.'.itmn  are  liappily  supplemented  by  general  intellectual  powers  of 
e\rrpti()nal  hriailth  .tihI  strrnpih.  which  admirably  fit  him  for  the  office  of  leader  and  instructor 
in  his  chosen  department  of  science. 

KK0WLED6E  OF  NATURE. 

When  man,  at  the  word  of  his  Maker,  stood  up  to  receive  his 
birthrip:ht,  God  pronounced  a  bene<liction,  and  gave  him  this  commis- 
sion :  "  Rfplen'uth  the  earth  :  subdue  it :  and  have  dominion  over  every 
living  thing" 

"  Subdue  and  have  dominion^  These  were  the  first  recorded  words 
that  fell  on  the  human  car ;  and  Heaven's  blessing  was  in  them. 

But  what  is  this  subduing  of  the  earth  ?  How  is  nature  brought 
under  subjection  ?  Man's  highest  glory  consists  in  obedience  to 
the  Eternal  Will ;  and  in  this  case,  is  he  actually  taking  the  reins 
into  his  own  hands  ?  Far  from  it.  He  is  but  yielding  submission. 
He  is  learning  that  will,  and  phicing  himself,  as  Lord  Bacon  has  said, 
in  direct  subserviency  to  divine  laws.  When  he  sets  his  sails,  and 
drives  over  the  waves  before  the  blast,  feeling  the  pride  of  power  in 
that  thr  gale  has  been  broken  into  a  willing  steed,  he  still  looks  up 


802  CATHCAET^S   LITERARY   READER. 

reverently,  and  acknowledges  that  God  in  nature  has  been  his  teacher, 
and  is  his  strength.     When  he  strikes  the  rock,  and  out  flows  the 
brilliant  metal,  he  admits  that  it  is  in  obedience  to  a  higher  will  tlum 
his  own,  and  a  reward  of  careful  searching  for  truth,   in  comph  i 
subjection   to  tliut  will.     When  he  yokes  together  a  plate  of  coppr 
and  zinc,  and  urges  them  to  action  by  a  cup  of  acid,  —  and  then  tl 
spatches  burdens  of  thought  on  errands  of  thousands  of  miles,  —  man 
may  indeed  claim  that  he  has  nature  at  his  bid,  subdued,  a  willinL'' 
messenger ;  and  yet  it  is  so,  because  man  himself  acta  in  perfect  obe- 
dience to  law.     He  may  well  feel  exaltetl :  but  his  exaltation  proceeds 
from  the  fact  that  he  has  drawn  from  a  higher  source  of  strength  than 
himself;  and  a  mind  not  morally  perverted  will  give  the  glory  when 
it  is  due. 

These  are  the  rewards  of  an  humble  and  teachable  spirit,  kneelin:. 
at  the  shrine  of  nature ;  and  if  there  is  indeed  that  forgctfulness  ol 
self,  and  that  unalloyed  love  of  truth,  which  alone  can  insure  the  higli- 
est  success  in  research,  this  shrine  will  be  viewed  as  only  the  portal 
to  a  holier  temple,  where  God  reigns  in  his  purity  and  love. 

The  command,  "  sulxlue,  and  have  dominion,"  is,  then,  a  mark  both 
of  man's  power,  and  of  God's  power.  It  requires  man  to  study  hi 
Maker's  works,  that  he  may  adapt  himself  to  his  laws,  and  use  them 
to  his  advantage  ;  —  to  become  wise,  that  he  may  be  strong ;  —  to 
elevate  and  ennoble  mind,  that  matter  may  take  its  true  place  of  sub- 
jection. It  involves  not  merely  a  study  of  nature  in  the  ordinary 
sense  of  those  words,  but  also  a  study  of  man  himself,  and  the  utmo-t 
exaltation  of  the  moral  and  mental  qualities ;  for  man  is  a  part  of 
nature ;  and  moreover,  to  understand  the  teachings  of  Infinite  Wis- 
dom, the  largest  expansion  of  intellect  and  loftiest  elevation  of  soul 
are  requisite. 

Solomon  says,  that,  in  his  day,  "  there  was  nothing  new  under  tlu 
sun."  What  is,  is  what  has  been,  and  what  shall  be.  The  sentiment 
was  not  prompted  by  any  modern  scientific  spirit,  —  impatience  of  so 
little  progress ;  for  it  is  immediately  connected  with  sighings  for  the 
good  old  times.  Much  the  same  spirit  is  often  shown  in  these  days, 
and  elaborate  addresses  are  sometimes  written  to  prove  that,  after  all 
our  boasted  progress,  Egypt  and  Greece  were  the  actual  sources  of 
existing  knowledge.  They  point  to  the  massy  stones  of  the  pyramids  ; 
the  sublime  temples  and  palaces  of  the  old  empires  ;  the  occasional 
utensils  of  half-transparent  glass,  and  implements  of  bronze  or  iron, 


ivN\  803 

fouiul  among  their  buried  ruins ;  the  fine  fabrics  and  costly  Tyrian 
(lyes;  —  they  descant  upon  the  woiulerful  ptTf'ertion  attained  in  the 
fine  arts,  in  pottry  and  rhetoric,  and  llie  profound  thouglit  of  the 
ancient  phiIoso])luTs  :  and  then  are  almost  ready  to  echo,  **  There  is 
nothinjj  new  undtr  the  sun."  What  is,  is  what  has  l)een.  Thoae 
good  old  times  ! 

But  what  liad  those  old  philosophers,  or  the  whole  ancient  world, 
done  toward  brinp:ing  nature  under  subjection,  in  obedience  to  the 
commaTul,  "  sulxlue  it  "  ? 

Tlu'y  iiad,  it  is  tnie,  built  magnificent  temples.  But  the  taste  of 
the  architect,  or  that  of  the  statuary  or  poet,  is  simply  an  emanation 
from  the  divine  breath  within  man,  and  is  cultivated  by  contempla- 
tion, and  only  surface  contact  with  nature. 

They  piled  up  ('yclopean  rocks  into  walls  and  pyramids.  But  the 
use  of  the  lever  and  pulley  comes  also  from  the  workings  of  mind, 
and  but  shallow  views  of  the  world.  And  adding  man  to  man  till 
thousands  have  worked  together,  as  in  one  harness,  has  been  a  com- 
mon feat  of  despots  from  the  time  of  the  Pharaohs  onward. 

They  educed  profound  systems  of  philosophy,  showing  a  depth  of 
thought  since  unsurpassed.  But  these  again  were  the  results  of 
cogitating  mind,  acting  in  its  own  might,  —  glancing,  it  may  be,  at 
the  landscape  and  the  stars  in  admiration,  but  centering  on  man  and 
mind  ;  and  often  proving  to  be  as  erroneous  as  profound. 

They  cultivated  the  intellect,  and  made  progress  in  political  knowl- 
edge. But  in  their  attempts  to  control  nature,  they  brought  to  bear 
little  beyond  mt^e  physical  force. 

Although  ancient  wisdom  treats  of  air,  earth,  fire,  and  water,  not 
one  of  these  so-called  elements  was,  in  any  proper  sense,  brought 
under  subjection. 

The  Air :  —  Was  it  subdued,  wlicu  the  old  Roman  still  preferred 
his  lianks  of  oars,  and  on  the  land,  the  wind  was  trained  only  to  turn 
a  wiiul-mill,  carry  off  chaffs,  or  work  in  a  bellows  ? 

Was  the  Earth  subdued,  when,  instead  of  l)eing  forced  to  pour  out 
in  streams  its  wealth  of  various  ores,  but  half  a  dozen  metals  were 
known  ?  and,  instead  of  being  explored  and  found  to  be  marshaled, 
for  man's  command,  under  sixty  or  more  elements,  each  with  its  laws 
of  combination,  and  all  l)ound  to  serve  the  arts,  the  wisest  minds  saw 
only  a  mass  of  earth,  something  to  tread  upon,  and  grow  grain  and 
grass? 


30*i  CATHCART^S    LITERARY    READER. 

Was  Fire  subiliud,  when  almost  its  only  uses  were  to  warm,  and 
cook,  and  to  bake  clay,  and  few  of  its  other  powers  were  known, 
besides  those  of  destruction  ?  or  Li(/hty  when  not  even  its  component 
colors  were  recognized,  and  it  served  simply  as  a  means  of  si*rlit,  in 
which  man  shared  its  use  with  brutes  ? 

Was  JFater  sul)dued,  when  it  was  left  to  run  wild  alonp^  the  water- 
courses, and  its  ocean-waves  were  a  terror  to  all  the  sailors  of  tlie  ag(  : 
when  steam  was  only  the  ephemeral  vapor  of  a  boiling  kettle,  yet  un- 
known in  its  might,  and  unhaniessed  ?  when  the  clouds  sent  their 
shafts  where  they  willed  ?  when  the  constituents  of  water  —  the  Xi'ii'- 
element  oj*y/7e«  and  the  inflammable  Ay</ro^e« — bad  uot  yet  yielded 
themselves  to  man  as  his  vassals  ? 

KNOWLEDGE  OF  NATTTBE  (con«»iti«rf). 

Hardly  the  initial  step  had  been  taken,  through  the  thousands  of 
years  of  the  earth's  existence,  to  acquire  that  control  of  nature  which 
miml  should  have,  and  God  had  orderwl.  The  sciences  of  observa- 
tion and  experiment  had  not  emerged  from  the  mists  of  empiricism 
and  superstition.  There  were  few  ascertained  principles  beyond  those 
that  flow  from  mathematical  law,  or  from  cogitations  of  mind  after 
surface  sui-veys  of  the  world. 

No  wonder  that  nature  unsubdued  should  have  proved  herself  a 
tyrant.  She  m  powerful.  Vast  might  is  embodied  in  her  forces,  that 
may  well  strike  terror  into  the  uninstructed  :  and  man  has  shown  his 
greatness  in  that  he  has  at  last  dared  to  claim  obedience.  The  air, 
earth,  water,  fire,  had  become  filled  with  fancied  fiends,  which  any 
priest  or  priestess  could  evoke  ;  and  even  the  harmless  moon,  or  two 
approaching  or  receding  planets,  or  the  accidental  flight  of  a  thought- 
less bird,  caused  fearful  forebodings ;  and  a  long-tailed  comet  made 
the  whole  world  to  shake  with  terror. 

Christianity,  although  radiant  with  hope,  could  not  wholly  break 
the  spell.  The  Christian's  trust,  Heaven's  best  gift  to  man,  makes 
the  soul  calm  and  strong  mid  dangers,  real  or  unreal ;  yet  it  leaves 
the  sources  of  terror  in  nature  untouched,  to  be  assailed  by  that 
power  which  comes  from  knowledge. 

Man  thus  suffered  for  his  disobedience.  He  was  the  slave, — 
nature,  the  feared  master  ;  to  many,  even  the  evil  demon  himself. 

Is  this  now  true  of  nature?     We  know  that,  to  a  large  extent. 


DANA.  305 

nature  is  yet  unsearched  and  unsubdued.  Still,  vast  progress  has 
Ixeii  made  toward  fj^ainin*^  control  of  her  ten  thousand  a<^encies. 

la  gathering  this  knowledge,  we  have  not  sought  for  it  among  the 
faded  monuments  and  rolls  of  the  ancients,  as  we  call  the  inhabitants 
of  the  earth's  childhood  :  but  have  looked  to  records  of  viisUtr  an- 
tiquity, —  the  writings  of  the  iutinite  God  in  creation,  which  are  now 
as  fresh  with  beiiuty  and  wisdom  as  when  His  finger  first  mapped  out 
the  heavens,  or  traced  the  flowers  and  crystals  of  the  earth.  This  is 
the  fountain  whence  we  have  drawn ;  and  what  is  the  result? 

How  is  it  with  icaler  in  these  last  times  ?  Instead  of  wasting  its 
powers  in  gambols  down  valleys,  or  in  sluggish  quiet  about  "  sleepy 
hollows,"  it  is  trained  to  toil.  With  as  much  glee  as  it  ever  displayed 
running  and  leaping  in  its  free  channel,  a  single  stream  now  turns 
over  a  million  of  spindles  in  this  New  £ngland. 

Changed  to  steam,  there  is  terror  in  its  strength  even  now.  Yet 
the  laws  of  steam,  of  its  production,  condensation,  and  elasticity,  have 
Ijcen  so  ciirefully  studied,  and  also  the  strength  and  other  qualities  of 
the  metal  used  to  confine  it,  as  well  as  the  nature  and  effects  of  fuel, 
that  if  we  are  careful  not  to  defy  established  principles,  steam  is  our 
most  willing  worker, — turning  saw-mills,  printing-presses,  cotton- 
gins,  —  speeding  over  our  roa^ls  with  indefinite  trains  of  carriages 
and  freight,  —  bearing  away  floating  mansions,  against  wind  and  tide, 
across  the  oceans,  —  cooking,  heating,  searching  out  dyes  from  coarse 
logwood,  and  the  like,  —  and  applying  itself  to  useful  purposes,  one 
way  or  another,  in  almost  all  the  arts.  Again,  if  we  will  it,  and 
follow  nature's  laws,  water  gives  up  its  oxygen  and  hydrogen,  and 
thus  the  chemist  secures  the  means  of  burning  even  the  diamond; 
the  aeronaut  makes  wings  for  his  adventurous  flight,  and  the  light- 
house derives  the  famous  Drummond  light  for  its  work  of  mercy. 

Liffht  is  no  longer  a  mere  colorless  medium  of  sight.  We  may 
evoke  from  it  any  color  wc  please,  either  for  use  or  pleasure.  We 
may  also  take  its  chemical  rays  from  the  rest,  or  its  light  rays,  or  its 
heat  rays,  and  employ  them  separately  or  together;  for  we  have 
foiuid  out  where  its  strength  lies  in  these  particulars,  so  that  at  will, 
light  may  pass  from  our  manipulations,  shorn  of  its  heating  power, 
or  of  its  power  of  promoting  growth,  or  chemical  change.  Ay,  the 
subtile  agent  will  now  use  its  pencU  in  taking  sketches  from  nature, 
or  portraits,  if  we  desire  it :  and  the  work  is  well  done. 

The  ancient  wise  men,  discoursing  on  the  power  which  holds  matter 


30G  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

toj^'thtT,  sometimes  attributed  to  the  particles  convenient  hooks  for 
elinj^iug  to  one  another.  Little  was  it  dreanuHl  that  the  force  of  com- 
bination in  matter  —  now  called  attraction  —  included  the  lightniiii: 
amon<?  its  effects,  and  would  be  made  to  run  errands  and  do  hard 
work  for  man.  Electricity,  galvanism,  magnetism,  are  modern  names 
for  some  of  the  different  moods  under  which  this  agent  apprars ;  and 
none  of  nature's  powers  now  do  better  service.  It  is  kept  on  con- 
stant run  with  messages  over  the  continents,  scaling  mountains  or 
traversing  seas  with  equal  facility.  It  does  our  gilding  and  silver- 
plating.  Give  it  an  engraved  plate  as  a  copy,  and  it  will  make  a  hun- 
dred such  in  a  short  time.  If  taken  into  employ,  it  will,  in  case  of 
fire,  set  all  the  Mis  of  a  city  ringing  at  once ;  or  it  will  strike  a  com- 
mon l)eat  for  all  the  clocks  of  a  country  ;  or  be  the  astronomer's  best 
and  surest  aid  in  observing  phases  in  the  heavens,  or  measuring  lon- 
gitude on  the  earth.  All  this  and  more  it  accomplishes  for  us,  or  can 
if  we  wish,  besides  opening  to  our  inquiring  eyes  the  profound  phi- 
losophy which  God  has  inscribed  in  his  works. 

Nature  is  not  now  full  of  gloom  and  terror.  Her  fancied  fiends 
have  turned  out  friends.  Although  God  still  holds  supreme  control, 
and  often  makes  man  remember  whence  his  strength,  yet  every  agent, 
however  mighty  in  itself,  is  becoming  a  gentle  and  ready  assistant, 
both  in  our  work  and  play,  —  in  the  material  progress  of  nations,  as 
well  as  their  moral  and  intellectual  advancement. 


MOTLEY.  807 

MOTLEY. 

1814- 

Jonif  LoTHBop  MuTLKT,  onc  of  the  most  eminent  of  American  historians,  iras  born  in  Dor« 
rhrstrr.  Massarhasetts,  in  lbl4.    Graduating  at  Harvard  Ck)Uege  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  he 
„,....  ...  !.-..~,,,e,  where  he  spent  several  years  in  preparation  for  a  task  to  which  he  had  early 

if,  —  the  writing  of  a  History  of  the  Rite  of  the  Dutch  Republic.     Young  as  he  was, 

h  \  prnlured  two  novels,  Morton's  Hope,  or  The  Memoirs  of  a  Provincial,  and  Merry 

. I/, ;/-„,'.  ./  y.  ■  r.KH-e  of  the  Massachusetts  Colony,  which  were  long  ago  forgotten.     After  fifteen 

vc.'irs  of  .-inlii'i  1^  i:ilM)r  he  finished  his  Histunj,  and  its  reception  on  i>oth  sides  of  the  Atlantic 

\\  i>  rMtpttoiiniiv  (iinlial.     Mr.  Everett  said  of  it  that  it  was,  in  his  judgment,  "a  work  of  the 

li  .!i  -t  merit,"  ami  placed  "the  name  of  Motley  by  the  side  of  those  of  our  great  American  histor- 

1,  al  I  no,  —  Bancroft,  Irving,  and  I'rescott."   The  instantaneous  success  of  this  History  —  tlie  work 

i)f  a  youn-r  and  unknown  writer  —  is  unprecedented  in  the  annals  of  historical  literature.     Not 

content  with  this  triumph,  which  assured  him  of  an  immortality  of  fame,  Mr.  Motley  at  once  set 

,  "^  it{  ye\\\c\\  tiliTff^r  in  The  History  uf  the  t'nited  Netherlands,  in 

<>n,  the  story  of  whose  birth  had  been  told  in  the  previous 

,  ;  It  and  accuracy.     During  the  current  year  (1874)  Mr.  Motley's 

ilunl  historical  work,  Life  and  Death  of  John  of  Bameteld.hwi  been  published.     In  common 

with  the  eminent  historians  with  whom  Edward  Everett  classed  him,  Mr.  Motley  possesses  in 

rare  combination  the  highest  intellectual  qualifications  for  his  work.     He  is  especially  remark- 

nlile  fir  a  certain  breadth  of  mind  which  impels  him  to  take  comprehensive  and  exhaustive  views 

of  his  subject.     His  style  is  a  model  of  vigor  and  grace,  and  in  dramatic  quahty  it  is  equaled  by 

that  of  no  other  historian  of  this  century.     It  would  be,  perhaps,  impossible  to  indicate  any  other 

historical  works  than  his,  of  comparatively  modem  issue,  touching  which  the  judgment  of  critics 

has  been  so  unanimously  favoral)le.     Some  foreign  reviewers,  unable  to  appreciate,  or,  perhaps, 

en<jl*'T  to  rebuke,  the  sturdy  Republican  spirit  that  animates  this  American  writer,  have  charged 

hiiu  with  excessive  severity  in  his  denunciation  of  Spanish  despotism  ;  but  with  this  exception 

lii*  cnndor  and  conscientious  accuracy  have  never  been  impugned.     Mr.  Motley  was  appointed 

rnifpil  States  Minister  to  Austria  by  President  Lincoln,  and,  after  honorable  service  at  Vienna, 

"I  to  Ensrland,  where  he  represented  this  government  with  conspicuous  ability. 

-  of  partisan  |x)litics  required  his  removal,  and  he  is  now,  a  private  citizen,  fully 

.....  (unKcnial  literary  labors. 


HI8T0EIC  PROGRESS. 

We  talk  of  History.  No  man  can  more  highly  appreciate  than  I 
«lo  the  noble  labors  of  your  Society,*  and  of  others  in  this  country, 
for  the  preser\ation  of  memorials  belonging  to  our  brief  but  most 
important  past.  We  ran  never  collect  too  much  of  them,  nor  ponder 
tliem  t(X)  carffully,  for  they  murk  the  era  of  a  new  civilization.  Ihit 
Hiat  interesting  past  presses  so  closely  upon  our  sight  that  it  seems 
iill  a  portion  of  the  present;  the  glininierinu:  dawn  preceding  the 
noontide  of  to-day. 

•  Tnic  Nkw  Yoek  Histokicai.  Societt.    The  extract  is  from  an  address  delivered  by  Mr. 
Motley  before  this  society.  December  16,  1»68.  the  subject  being  Uit'orie  Progreu  and  Amtrieut 

Tiemocrnry 


308  CATHCAET^S    LITERARY    READER. 

I  shall  not  be  misunderstood,  then,  if  I  say  that  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  human  histor}'.  Nothing  can  be  more  profoundly,  sadly 
true.  The  annals  of  mankind  have  never  been  written,  never  can  l 
written  ;  nor  would  it  be  within  human  capacity  to  read  them  if  tin  \ 
were  written.  We  have  a  leaf  or  two  torn  from  the  great  book  of  hu- 
man fate  as  it  flutters  in  the  storm-winds  ever  sweeping  across  the 
earth.  We  decipher  them  as  we  best  can  with  purblind  eyes,  and  en- 
deavor to  learn  their  mystery  as  we  float  along  to  the  abyss  ;  but  it  is 
all  confused  babble,  hieroglyphics  of  which  the  key  is  lost.  Coiisidei- 
but  a  moment.  The  ishind  on  which  this  city  stands  is  as  perfect  a 
site  as  man  could  desire  for  a  great,  commercial,  imperial  city.  By- 
zantium,* which  the  lords  of  the  ancient  world  built  for  the  capital 
of  the  earth  ;  which  the  temperate  and  vigorous  Turk  in  the  days  of 
his  stem  military  discipline  plucked  from  the  decrepit  hands  whicli 
held  the  scepter  of  Caesar  and  Constantine,  and  for  the  succession  to 
which  the  present  lords  of  Europe  are  wrangling,  —  not  Byzantium, 
nor  hundred-gated  Thebes,t  ^^or  London  nor  Liverpool,  Paris  nor 
Moscow,  can  surpass  the  future  certainties  of  this  thirtoon-mile-long 
Manhattan. 

And  yet  it  was  but  yesterday — for  what  arc  two  ({'nturics  and  a 
half  in  the  boundless  vista  of  the  past  ?  —  that  the  Mohawk  and  the 
Mohican  were  tomahawking  and  scalping  each  other  throughout  these 
regions,  and  had  been  doing  so  for  centuries  ;  while  the  whole  surface 
of  this  island,  now  groaning  under  millions  of  wealth  which  oppress 
the  imagination,  hardly  furnished  a  respectible  hunting-ground  for  a 
single  sachem,  in  his  war-paint  and  moccasins,  who  imagined  himself 
proprietor  of  the  soil. 

But  yestenlay  Cimmerian  darkness,  primeval  night.  To-day, 
grandeur,  luxury',  wealth,  power.  I  come  not  here  to-night  to  draw 
pictures  or  pour  forth  dith^Tambics  that  I  may  gratify  your  vanity  or 
my  own,  whether  municipal  or  national.  To  appreciate  the  unexam- 
pled advantages  l)estowed  by  the  Omnipotent  upon  this  favored  Ee- 
public,  this  youngest  child  of  civilization,  is  rather  to  oppress  the 
thoughtful  mind  with  an  overwhelming  sense  of  responsibility ;   to 

*  Byzantium.  The  orifrinal  name  of  Constantinople,  the  present  capital  of  the  Turkish  Em- 
pire. The  beauty  and  convenience  of  its  situation  were  obsen-ed  by  Constantine  the  Great,  who 
made  it  the  capital  of  the  Eastern  Roman  Empire  a.  d.  328,  and  called  it  Constantinopolis,  i.  e. 
the  City  of  Constantine. 

+  Thebes.  A  great  city  of  Esypt  which  was  formerly  the  capital  of  that  country.  It  is  now 
in  ruins,  its  remains  extending  for  se^•pn  miles  alone  both  banks  of  the  Nile. 


MOTLEY.  809 

sadden  with  quick-coming  fears  ;  to  torture  with  reasonable  doubts. 
The  world's  grc<it  hope  is  here.  The  future  of  humanity  —  at  least 
for  that  cycle  in  which  we  are  now  revolving  —  depends  mainly  upon 
the  manner  in  which  we  deal  with  our  great  trust. 

The  good  old  times !  Where  and  when  were  those  good  old 
times  ? 

"  All  times  when  old  are  good/' 

says  Byron. 

"And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  foola 
The  way  to  dusty  death," 

says  the  great  master  of  morals  and  humanity. 

But  neither  fools  nor  sages,  neither  individuals  nor  nations,  have 
any  other  light  to  guide  them  along  the  track  which  all  must  tread, 
save  that  long  glimmering  vista  of  yesterdays  which  grows  so  swiftly 
fainter  r.nd  fainter  as  the  present  fades  into  the  past. 

And  I  believe  it  possible  to  discover  a  law  out  of  all  this  appar- 
ently chaotic  whirl  and  bustle,  this  tangled  skein  of  human  affairs,  as 
it  spins  itself  through  the  centuries.  That  law  is  Progress,  —  slow, 
confused,  contradictory,  but  ceaseless  development,  intellectual  and 
moral,  of  the  human  race. 

It  is  of  Human  IVogress  that  I  speak  to-night.  It  is  of  Progress 
that  I  find  a  startling  result  when  I  survey  the  spectacle  which  the 
American  Present  displays. 

This  nation  stands  on  the  point  towards  which  other  people  are 
moving, — the  starting-point,  not  the  goal.  It  has  put  itself — or 
rather  Destiny  has  placed  it  —  more  immediately  than  other  nations 
in  subordination  to  the  law  governing  all  bodies  political  as  inexora- 
bly as  Kepler's  law  controls  the  motions  of  the  planets. 

The  law  is  Progress  ;  the  residt,  Democracy. 

Sydney  Smith  once  alluded,  if  I  remember  rightly,  to  a  person  who 
allowed  himself  to  speak  disrespectfully  of  the  equator.  I  have  a 
strong  objection  to  l)e  suspected  of  flattering  the  equator.  Yet  were 
it  not  for  that  little  angle  of  23°  27'  26",  which  it  is  good  enough 
to  make  with  the  plane  of  the  ecliptic,  the  history  of  this  earth  and  of 
"  all  which  it  inherit "  would  have  been  essentially  modified,  even  if 
it  had  not  been  altogether  a  blank. 

Out  of  the  obli(juity  of  tlie  equator  has  come  forth  our  civilization. 
It  was  long  ago  observed  by  one  of  the  most  thoughtful  writers  that 
ever  dealt  with  human  history,  John  von  Herder,  that  it  was  to  the 


310  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

gradual  shading  away  of  zones  and  alternation  of  seasons  that  the 
vigor  and  variety  of  mankind  were  attributable. 

I  have  asked  where  and  when  were  the  good  old  times?  This 
earth  of  ours  has  been  spinning  about  in  space,  great  philosopliers 
tell  us,  some  few  hundred  millions  of  years.  We  are  not  very  famil- 
iar with  our  predecessors  on  this  continent.  For  the  present,  the 
oldest  inhabitant  must  be  represented  here  by  the  man  of  Natchez, 
whose  bones  were  unearthed  not  long  ago  under  the  Mississippi  blufl's 
in  strata  wliich  were  said  to  argue  him  to  be  at  least  one  hundred 
thousand  years  old.  Yet  he  is  a  mere  modern,  a  parvenu  on  this 
planet,  if  we  are  to  trust  illustrious  teachers  of  science,  compared  witli 
the  men  whose  Iwnes  and  whose  implements  have  been  found  in  high 
mountain-valleys  and  gravel-pits  of  Europe ;  while  these  again  are 
thought  by  the  same  authorities  to  be  descendants  of  races  which 
flourished  many  thousands  of  years  before,  and  whose  relics  science  is 
confidently  expecting  to  discover,  although  the  icy  sea  had  once  in- 
gulfwl  them  and  their  dwelling-places. 

We  of  to-day  have  no  filial  interest  in  the  man  of  Natchez.  He  was 
no  ancestor  of  ours,  nor  have  he  and  his  descendants  left  traces  alonjr 
the  dreary  track  of  their  existence  to  induce  a  desire  to  claim  relation- 
ship with  them. 

We  are  Americans  ;  but  yesterday  we  were  Europeans,  — Nether- 
landers,  Saxons,  Normans,  Swabians,  Celts ;  and  the  day  before  yes- 
terday, Asiatics,  Mongolians,  what  you  will. 

The  orbit  of  civilization,  so  far  as  our  perishing  records  enable  us 
to  trace  it,  seems  preordained  from  East  to  West.  China,  India,  Pal- 
estine, Egypt,  Greece,  Rome,  are  successively  lighted  up  as  the  majestic 
orb  of  day  moves  over  them  ;  and  as  he  advances  still  farther  through 
his  storied  and  mysterious  zodiac,  we  behold  the  shadows  of  evening 
as  surely  falling  on  th.  lands  which  he  leaves  behind  him. 

Man  still  reeled  on,  —  falling,  rising  again,  staggering  forward 
with  hue  and  ciy  at  his  heels,  —  a  wounded  felon  daring  to  escape 
from  the  prison  to  which  the  grace  of  God  had  inexorably  doomed 
him.  And  still  there  was  progress.  Besides  the  sword,  two  other 
instniments  grew  every  day  more  potent,  —  the  pen  and  the  purse. 

The  power  of  the  pen  soon  created  a  stupendous  monopoly.  Clerks 
obtained  privilege  of  murder  because  of  their  learning;  a  Norman 
king  gloried  in  the  appellation  of  "  fine  clerk,"  because  he  could  spell ; 
the  sons  of  serfs  and  washerwomen  became  high  pontiffs,  put  their 


MOTLEY.  311. 

feet  on  the  necks  of  emperors,  through  the  might  of  education,  and 
applied  tlie  souls  of  tyrants  with  their  weird  anathemas.  Naturally, 
the  priests  kept  the  talisman  of  learning  to  themselves.  How  should 
education  help  them  to  power  and  pelf,  if  the  people  could  participate 
in  the  mystic  spell  ?  The  icy  Deadhand  of  the  Church,  ever  extended, 
was  tilled  to  overflowing  by  trembling  baron  and  superstitious  hind. 

But  there  was  another  power  steadily  augmenting,  —  the  magic 
purse  of  Fortunatus  with  its  clink  of  perennial  gold.  Commerce 
changed  clusters  of  hovels,  cowering  for  protection  under  feudal  cas- 
tles, into  powerful  cities.  Burghers  wrested  or  purchased  liberties 
from  their  lords  and  masters. 

And  still  man  struggled  on.  An  experimenting  friar,  fond  of 
chemistry,  in  one  corner  of  Europe,  put  niter,  sulphur,  and  charcoal 
together;*  a  sexton  or  doctor,  in  another  obscure  nook,  carved 
letters  on  blocks  of  wood ;  f  and  lo !  there  were  explosions  shaking 
the  solid  earth,  and  causing  the  iron-clad  man  on  horseback  to  reel  in 
his  saddle. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Dr.  Faustus  was  supposed  to  have  sold  his 
soul  to  the  fiend.  Whence  but  from  devilish  alliance  could  he  have 
derived  such  power  to  strike  down  the  grace  of  God  ? 

Speech,  the  alphabet,  Mount  Sinai,  Egypt,  Greece,  Borne,  Nazareth, 
the  wandering  of  the  nations,  the  feudal  system,  Magna  Charta,  gun- 
powder, printing,  the  Reformation,  the  mariner's  compass,  America, 
—  here  are  some  of  the  great  landmarks  of  human  motion. 

As  we  pause  for  a  moment's  rest,  after  our  rapid  sweep  through  the 
eons  and  the  centuries,  have  we  not  the  right  to  record  proof  of  man's 
progress  since  the  days  of  the  rhinoceros-eaters  of  Bedfordshire,  of 
the  man  of  Natchez? 

•  The  discorerr  of  gtrnpowder  by  Bertholdas,  a  Genn«n  monk,  in  1S20. 

♦  GiTr.jtBKRO,  bom  in  Germany  alKmt  1400,  is  genenlly  caHed  the  inventor  of  printinfr-  He 
wa«  the  first  to  print  from  letters  cut  on  blocks  of  wood  and  metal.  He  was  associated  with  Dr. 
Fnii^tiM,  tiit-nfidnwl  hdow.  Having  printed  off  numbers  of  ropirs  of  the  Bible,  to  imitate  tliosc 
hIikIi  «<•!(  (niiuiiiiiily  sold  in  manusrript,  Hayden  says  Dr.  Faustun  undertook  the  sale  of  them 
m  Vnn*  «  lirri-  |»niuin(t  «aa  then  unknown.  As  he  sold  his  copies  for  sixty  crowns,  while  the 
»rnlic9  demanded  the  hundred,  he  created  universal  astonishment ;  but  when  he  produced  copies 
n*  fii«t  M  they  were  wanted,  and  lowered  the  price  to  thirty  crowns,  all  Paris  was  agitated.    The 

'  the  copies  increase*!  the  wonder:  informations  were  given  to  the  police  against 

mn,  and  hi*  l<Mlginz«  being  searchetl  and  a  great  number  of  copies  In-ing  found, 
/<d  Tlie  red  ink  with  wliirh  they  were  eml>elli8he<I  was  supposed  to  \>e  bis  blood, 
auil  ;i  ua«  striounly  adjudged  that  he  was  in  league  with  the  IHnil ;  and  if  he  had  not  fled,  he 
Would  have  shared  the  fate  of  those  wliom  superstitiuus  judges  coiidrnincd  in  those  tUys  for 
witelicn»n,  a.  u.  llflO.  The  career  of  Dr.  Faustus  has  formed  the  subject  of  nameroos  dramas, 
mmances,  and  poems,  the  moat  nouble  of  which  are  Goethe's  Fautt,  and  the  oelebnUed  opera 
of  that  name. 


312  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

And  for  details  and  detached  scenes  in  the  j^eneral  phantasmao^oria, 
which  has  bt*en  ever  shifting  Ix'fore  us,  we  may  seek  for  illustration, 
instruction,  or  comfort  in  any  age  or  land  where  authentic  record  can 
be  found.  We  may  take  a  calm  survey  of  passionate,  democratic 
Greece  in  her  great  civil  war  through  the  terse,  judicial  narrative  of 
Thucydides ;  ♦  we  may  learn  to  loathe  despotism  in  that  marvelous 
portrait-gallery  of  crime  which  the  somber  and  terrible  Tacitus  f  has 
bequeathed ;  we  may  cross  the  yawning  abysses  and  dreary  deserts 
which  lie  between  two  civiliiMitions  over  that  stately  viaduct  of  a  thou- 
sand arches  which  the  great  hand  of  Gibbon  has  constructed  ;  we  may 
penetrate  to  the  inmost  political  and  social  heart  of  England,  during 
a  period  of  nine  years,  by  help  of  the  magic  wand  of  Macaulay ;  we 
may  linger  in  the  stately  portico  to  the  unbuilt  dome  which  the  daring 
genius  of  Buckle  consumed  his  life  in  devising  ;  we  may  yield  to  the 
sweet  fascinations  which  ever  dwell  in  the  picturesque  pages  of  Pres- 
cott ;  wc  may  investigate  rules,  apply  and  ponder  examples :  but  the 
detail  of  history  is  essentially  a  blank,  and  nothing  could  be  more 
dismal  than  its  pursuit,  unless  the  mind  be  filled  by  a  broad  view  of 
its  general  scheme. 

THE  BELIEF  OF  LEYDEN.+ 

The  besieged  city  §  was  at  its  last  gasp.  The  burghers  had  been 
in  a  state  of  uncertainty  for  many  days ;  being  aware  that  the  fleet 
had  set  forth  for  their  relief,  but  knowing  full  well  the  thousand  ob- 
stacles which  it  had  to  surmount.  They  had  guessed  its  progi-ess  by 
the  illumination  from  the  blazing  villages,  they  had  heard  its  salvos 
of  artillery  on  its  arrival  at  North  Aa ;  but  since  then  all  had  been 
dark  and  mournful  again,  —  hope  and  fear,  in  sickening  alternation, 

•  Thucydides.  One  of  the  most  illastrious  of  the  Greek  historians,  born  471  b.  c.  His 
celebrity  rests  npon  his  unlinished  Hutory  of  the  Pelopontutian  War.  (See  Grote's  History  of 
Greece.) 

t  TAcrrrs.  A  celebrated  Roman  historian,  born  about  65  a.  d.  His  reputation  is  chiefly 
founde<l  on  his  AnnaU,  in  sixteen  books,  which  record  the  history  of  the  Koman  Empire  from  the 
death  of  Augustus  a.  d.  li  to  the  death  of  Nero  a.  d.  68.  Excepting  the  seventh,  eighth,  ninth, 
and  tenth  books,  the  work  still  exists. 

t  The  extract  is  from  Mr.  Motley's  brilliant  history.  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic. 

^  Lkydf.x,  now  a  flourishing  manufacturing  town  of  South  Holland.  It  was  besieged  by  the 
Spaniards  in  1574,  when  they  tried  to  subdue  the  Netherlands  under  their  yoke.  Tlie  siege  be- 
gan on  31st  October,  1573,  and  ended  on  3d  October,  1574.  It  was  relieved  by  the  dikes  being 
cut,  and  the  sea  let  in  on  the  Spanish  works.  Mfteen  hundred  Spaniards  were  slain  or  drowned. 
The  University  of  Leyden  was  erected  as  a  memorial  of  this  gallant  defense  and  happy  deliver- 
ance.   The  reiief  of  Leyden  was  a  fatal  blow  to  Spanish  power  in  the  Netherlands. 


MOTLEY.  818 

distracting  every  breast.  They  knew  that  the  wind  was  unfavorable, 
and  at  the  dawn  of  each  day  every  eye  was  turned  wistfully  to  the 
vanes  of  the  steeples.  80  long  as  the  easterly  breeze  prevailed,  they 
felt,  as  they  anxiously  stood  on  towers  and  house-tops,  tliat  they  must 
look  in  vain  for  the  welcome  ocean. 

Yet,  while  thus  patiently  waiting,  they  were  literally  starving ;  for 
even  the  misery  endured  at  Huark'in  *  had  not  reached  that  depth  and 
intensity  of  agony  to  which  Leyden  was  now  reduced.  Bread,  mult- 
cake,  horse-flesh,  had  entirely  disappeared  ;  dogs,  cats,  rats,  and  other 
vermin  were  esteemed  luxuries.  A  small  number  of  cows,  kept  as 
long  as  possible  for  their  milk,  still  remained  ;  but  a  few  were  killed 
from  day  to  day,  and  distributed  in  minute  portions,  hardly  sufficient 
to  support  life,  among  the  famishing  population.  Starving  wretches 
swarmed  daily  around  the  shambles  where  these  cattle  were  slaugh- 
tered, contending  for  any  morsel  which  might  fall,  and  lapping  eager- 
ly the  blood  as  it  ran  along  the  pavement ;  while  the  hides,  chopped 
and  boiled,  were  greedily  devonnnl. 

Women  and  children,  all  day  long,  were  seen  searching  gutters  and 
elsewhere  for  morsels  of  food,  which  they  disputed  fiercely  with  the 
famishing  dogs.  The  green  leaves  were  stripped  from  the  trees, 
every  living  herb  was  converted  into  hu>nan  food ;  but  these  expedi- 
ents could  not  avert  starvation.  The  daily  mortality  was  frightful. 
Infants  starved  to  death  on  tiie  maternal  breasts  wiiich  famine  had 
parched  and  withered ;  mothers  dropped  dead  in  the  streets,  with  their 
deatl  children  in  their  arms. 

In  many  a  house  the  watchmen,  in  their  rounds,  found  a  whole 
family  of  corpses  —  father,  mother,  children  —  side  by  side  ;  for  a 
disorder,  called  "  the  Plague,"  naturally  engendered  of  hardship  and 
famine,  now  came,  as  if  in  kindness,  to  abridge  the  agony  of  the  peo- 
ple. Pestilence  stalked  at  noonday  through  the  city,  and  the  doomed 
inhabitants  fell  like  grass  beneath  his  scythe.  From  six  to  eight 
thousand  human  beings  sank  Wfore  this  scourge  nlone ;  yet  the 
people  resolutely  held  out,  women  and  men  mutually  encouraging 
each  other  to  resist  the  entrance  of  their  foreign  foe.f  —  an  evil  more 
horrible  than  pest  or  famine. 

•  Haailek.  Prpdfrirk.  the  ann  of  Alva,  gtanrtl  the  little  grarrisoo  of  Haarlem  (90  mile* 
north  of  I/cyden)  into  a  iurrcnder  (1673) ;  and  thrn.  enraged  at  the  gallant  drfcnse  they  had 
tiia.l. ,  l)iiu  lurrtl  theni  without  mercy.  When  the  executionert  were  worn  out  with  their  bloody 
work.  b«  iMd  the  tJurae  hoiulnd  dltMM  Uut  muaiaod  iMck  to  back^aad  fl«u  tliem  into  tbe  9e^ 

tTteSpuknU. 

13  • 


314  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

Leyden  was  sublime  in  its  despair.  A  few  murmurs  were,  how- 
ever, occasionally  heard  at  the  steadfastness  of  the  magistrates ;  and  a 
dead  body  was  placed  at  the  door  of  the  burgomaster,  as  a  silent  wit- 
ness against  his  inflexibility.  A  party  of  the  more  faint-hearted  even 
assailed  the  heroic  Adrian  Van  der  Werf  ♦  with  threats  and  reproaches 
as  he  passed  along  the  streets.  A  crowd  had  gathered  around  him  as 
he  reached  a  triangular  pkce  in  the  center  of  the  town,  into  which 
many  of  the  principal  streets  emptied  themselves,  and  upon  one  si(l< 
of  which  stood  the  Church  of  St.  Pancras. 

There  stood  the  burgomaster,  a  tall,  haggard,  imposing  figure,  with 
dark  visage  and  a  tranquil  but  commanding  eye.  He  waved  his 
broad-leaved  felt  hat  for  silence,  and  then  exclaimed,  in  language 
which  has  been  almost  lit^Tally  preserved,  "  What  would  ye,  my 
friends  ?  Why  do  ye  murmur  that  we  do  not  break  our  vows  and 
surrender  the  city  to  the  Spaniards,  —  a  fate  more  horrible  than  the 
agony  which  she  now  endures  ?  I  tell  you  I  have  made  an  oath  to 
hold  the  city ;  and  may  God  give  me  stjrength  to  keep  my  oath !  I 
can  die  but  once,  whether  by  your  hands,  the  enemy's,  or  by  the 
hand  of  God.  My  own  fate  is  indifferent  to  me ;  not  so  that  of  the 
city  intrusted  to  my  care.  I  know  that  we  shall  starve  if  not  soon 
relieved ;  but  starvation  is  preferable  to  the  dishonored  death  which 
is  the  only  alternative.  Your  menaces  move  me  not.  My  life  is  at 
your  disposal.  Here  is  my  sword  ;  plunge  it  into  my  breast,  and 
divide  my  flesh  among  you.  Take  my  body  to  appease  your  hunger, 
but  expect  no  surrender  so  long  as  I  remain  alive." 

On  the  28th  of  September  a  dove  flew  into  the  city,  bringing  a 
letter  from  Admiral  Boisot.f  In  this  despatch  the  position  of  the 
fleet  at  North  Aa  was  descril)ed  in  encouraging  terms,  and  the  inhab- 
itants were  assured  that,  in  a  very  few  days  at  furthest,  the  long- 
expected  relief  would  enter  their  gates. 

The  tempest  came  to  their  relief.  A  violent  equinoctial  gale,  on 
the  night  of  the  1st  and  2d  of  October,  came  storming  from  the 
northwest,  shifting  after  a  few  hours  fully  eight  points,  and  then 
blowing  still  more  violently  from  the  southwest.  The  waters  of  the 
North  Sea  were  piled  in  vast  masses  upon  the  southern  coast  of  Hol- 
land, and  then  dashed  furiously  landward,  the  ocean  rising  over  the 
earth  and  sweeping  with  unrestrained  power  across  the  mined  dikes. 

*  Adkiak  Van  dek  Werf,  the  burgomaster,  or  chief  magistrate  of  Leyden. 
f  Adxikal  Boisot,  the  commander  of  the  Dutch  fleet. 


MOTLEY.  316 

In  the  course  of  tweiity-four  hours  the  fleet  at  North  Aa,  instead  of 
nine  inches,  had  more  than  two  feet  of  water. 

On  it  went,  swotping  over  the  broad  waters.  As  they  approached 
some  shallows  which  led  into  the  great  Mere,  the  Zeelanders  dashed 
into  the  sea,  and  with  sht^r  strength  shouldered  every  vessel 
through ! 

It  was  resolved  that  a  sortie,  in  conjunction  with  the  operations 
of  Boisot,  should  be  made  against  Lammen*  with  the  eiirliest  dawn. 
Night  descended  upon  the  scene,  —  a  pitch-dark  night,  full  of  anxiety 
to  the  Spjiniards,  to  the  Armada,  to  Leyden.  Strange  sights  and 
sounds  occurred  at  different  moments  to  bewilder  the  anxious  senti- 
nels. A  long  procession  of  lights  issuing  from  the  fort  was  seen  to 
Hit  across  the  black  face  of  the  waters,  in  the  dead  of  night ;  and  the 
whole  of  the  city  wall  between  the  Cowgate  and  the  town  of  Burgun- 
dy fell  with  a  loud  crash.  The  horror-struck  citizens  thought  that 
the  Spcuiiards  were  upon  them  at  last ;  the  Spaniards  imagined  the 
noise  to  indicate  a  desperate  sortie  of  the  citizens.  Everything  was 
vague  and  mysterious. 

Day  dawned  at  length  after  the  feverish  night,  and  the  admiral 
pn*pared  for  the  assault.  Within  the  fortress  reigned  a  dejith-like 
stillness,  which  inspired  a  sickening  suspicion.  Had  the  city  indeed 
l)een  cjirried  in  the  night  ?  Had  the  massacre  already  commenced  ? 
Had  all  this  labor  and  audacity  been  expended  in  vain  ? 

Suddenly  a  man  was  descried  wading  breast-high  through  the  water 
from  Lammen  towards  the  fleet,  while  at  the  same  time,  one  solitary 
l)oy  was  seen  to  wave  his  cap  from  the  summit  of  the  fort.  After  a 
moment  of  doubt,  the  happy  mystery  wns  solved.  The  Spaniards  had 
fled  panic-struck  during  the  darkness.  Their  position  would  still  have 
enablctl  them,  with  firmness,  to  fnistrate  the  enterprise  of  the  patriots ; 
but  the  hand  of  God,  which  hml  sent  the  ocean  and  the  tempest  to 
the  deliverance  of  Leyden,  had  stnick  lur  enemies  with  terror  like- 
wise. 

Tin*  lights  which  had  been  seen  moving  during  the  night  were  the 
lanterns  of  the  retreating  Spaniards ;  and  the  boy  who  was  now  waving 
his  triumphant  signal  from  the  battlements  had  alone  witnessed  the 


*  I.AM1IKN,  ■  fort  oecapied  hy  the  Spanmrdt,  which  formrd  the  sole 
tween  ihr  flrrt  mad  the  dty.  It  nranaed  with  loldieri  «nd  hrintlrd  with  mbbob  ;  aad  m  aetU 
mm  M  inpedimait  did  BoiMi  eoMlder  it,  that  he  wrote  that  very  ni^t  is  deipaidiag  Unms 
rcftiiiag  it  to  the  Prinee  of  Onagc. 


316  CATiirAT^r's  literary  reader. 

spectacle.  So  confident  was  he  in  the  conclusion  to  which  it  led  him, 
that  he  had  volunteered  at  daybreak  to  go  thither  alone. 

The  magistrates,  fearing  a  trap,  hesitated  for  a  moment  to  belieye 
the  tnitli,  which  soon,  however,  became  quite  evident.  Valdez,*  flying 
himself  from  Leyderdorp,  had  ordered  Colonel  Borgia  to  retire  with 
ail  his  troops  from  Lam  men. 

Thus  the  Spaniards  hail  retreated  at  the  very  moment  thai  ai.  <  \iiuor- 
dinary  accident  had  laid  bare  a  whole  side  of  the  city  for  their  en- 
trance !  The  noise  of  the  wall  as  it  fell  only  inspired  them  with  fresh 
{Uarm ;  for  they  believed  that  the  citizens  had  sallied  forth  in  the 
darkness  to  aid  the  advancing  flood  in  the  work  of  destruction. 

All  obstacles  being  now  removed,  the  fleet  of  Boisot  swept  by 
Lam  men,  and  entered  the  city  on  the  morning  of  the  3d  of  October. 
Leyden  was  relieved ! 

THE  HEEO  OF  THE  DUTCH  EEPUBLIC. 

No  man  —  not  even  Washington  —  has  ever  been  inspired  by  a 
purer  patriotism  than  that  of  William  of  Orange.  Whether  original- 
ly of  a  timid  temperament  or  not,  he  was  c^'rtainly  possessed  of  perfect 
courage  at  last.  In  siege  and  battle,  in  the  deadly  air  of  pestilential 
cities,  in  the  long  exhaustion  of  mind  and  body  which  comes  from 
unduly  protracted  labor  and  anxiety,  amid  the  countless  conspiracies 
of  assassins,  he  was  daily  exposed  to  death  in  every  shape.  Within 
two  years  five  different  attempts  against  his  life  had  been  discovered. 
Rank  and  fortune  were  offered  to  any  malefactor  who  would  compass 
the  murder.  He  had  already  been  shot  through  the  head,  and  almost 
mortally  wounded.  He  went  through  life  bearing  the  load  of  a  peo- 
ple's sorrows  upon  his  shoulders  with  a  smiling  face.  Their  name  was 
the  last  word  upon  his  lips,  save  the  simple  affirmative  with  which  the 
soldier  who  had  been  battling  for  the  right  all  his  lifetime  commended 
his  soul,  in  dying,  "  to  the  great  Captain,  Christ."  The  people  were 
jrrateful  and  affectionate,  for  thev  trusted  the  character  of  their  "  Fa- 
thcr  William,"  and  not  all  the  clouds  which  calumny  could  collect 
ever  dimmed  to  their  eyes  the  radiance  of  that  lofty  mind  to  which 
they  were  accustomed,  in  their  darkest  calamities,  to  look  for  light. 
As  long  as  he  lived  he  ^vas  the  guiding-star  of  a  whole  brave  nation, 
and  when  he  died  the  little  children  cried  in  the  streets. 

*  Vai.dez,  the  Spanish  commander.  His  head-quarters  were  at  Leyderdorp,  a  mile  and  a  half 
to  the  right  of  Lammen. 


FROUDE.  317 

FEOUDE. 
1818- 

Jaum  Atthomt  Faot'DE,  the  historian,  was  born  in  Devonshire,  England,  in  1818.  He 
graduated  at  Oxford  Uniri-rsity,  and  became  a  Fellow  of  Exeter  College.  His  first  book  was  a 
novel,  Th'  Shadows  of  the  Cloudt,  which  had  much  merit,  but  is  now  forgotten.  His  second 
was  Tkr  S'-inen.i  i,f  Faith,  a  theological  work  which  attracted  much  attention.  But  his  third 
essay,  iu  the  laid  of  history,  was  conspicuously  succv^vsful.  His  History  of  BnfflanJ  embraces 
tlie  period  between  the  Fail  of  Wolaey  and  the  Death  of  Elizabeth,  and  furnishes  the  completest 
^  lew  nf  that  time  that  has  ever  been  written.  In  its  preparation  the  author  availed  himself  of  a 
i.iiL'i'  collection  of  manuscripts  never  before  discovered,  and  which  threw  a  strong  liglit  upon 
ti  >  Milijrct.  Mr.  Fn)udc  is  not  absolutely  impartial  as  an  historian;  he  often  gives  way  to  hi* 
p; .  jiiiiices,  and  seems  to  pervert  testimony  in  aid  of  his  own  opinions.  His  treatment  of  the  case 
of  .M:iiy  Queen  of  Scots  has  been  shown  to  be  thoroughly  unjost.  But  he  has  admirable  qualiti- 
rn'M  w  for  historical  writing;  his  philosophical  reflections  are  judicious,  and  his  siyle  is  spirited 
-iblc.  Some  of  his  dramatic  passages  are  equal  to  any  in  our  historical  literature.  Al> 
l)est  known,  in  this  country,  at  least,  by  his  Uisiory,  Mr.  Froude  has  written  many  able 
'  oil  moral,  social,  and  educational  topics,  some  of  which  hav^  been  collected  in  a  volume  en- 

•  i  Short  SlnJies  on  Great  Subjects,  from  which  the  second  extract  is  taken.  He  is  now  engaged 
oil  a  ixKik  entitled  The  EnglUk  in  Irrlamti,  the  first  volume  of  which  has  been  published.  In  1872 
)lr.  Froude  visited  this  coontry  on  a  lecturing  tour,  and  was  receired  with  marked  cordiality. 

EXECUTION  OF  SIE  THOMAS  MOEE  • 

At  daybreak  More  was  awoke  by  the  entrance  of  Sir  Thomas  Pope, 
wlio  had  come  to  confirm  his  anticipations,  and  to  tell  him  it  was  the 
king's  pleasure  that  he  should  suffer  at  nine  o'clock  that  morning. 
He  received  the  news  with  utter  composure.  "  I  am  much  boundea 
to  the  king,"  he  said,  "  for  the  benefits  and  honors  he  has  bestowed 
on  me ;  and,  so  help  me  God,  most  of  all  I  am  bounden  to  him  that  it 
pleaseth  his  Majesty  to  rid  me  so  shortly  out  of  the  miseries  of  this 
present  world." 

Pope  told  him  the  king  desired  that  he  would  not "  use  many  words 
on  the  scaffold."  "  Mr.  Pope,"  he  answered,  "  you  do  well  to  give 
me  warning,  for  otherwise  I  had  purpostni  somewhat  to  have  spoken  ; 
but  no  matter  wherewith  his  Grace  should  have  cause  to  be  offended. 

•  Sir  Thomas  Mokr,  a  celebrated  English  philosopher  and  statesman,  bom  in  London  in 
1480.     He  was  the  author  of  the  famous  Utopia,  a  fanciful  production  written  in  I.rfitin,  describ- 
;  an  imaginary  commonwealth  in  the  imaginary  island  of  Utopia,  the  citizens  of  which  had 
tUap  in  common.     He  was  a  strong  Roman  Catholic,  and  wrote  tracU  against  Luther.     In 
"  sr,  16»,  he  was  appointed  Lord  Chancellor  by  Henry  VIII.  in  place  of  the  famous  Cardi- 
Wolaey  (see  extract  from  Shaketpeare's  King  Henry  the  Eighth,  page  5V    Sir  Thomas 
to  sanctbn  the  divorce  of  Qneen  Catherine  and  the  marriage  of  King  Henry  to  Aune 
ftwr  which  be  was  beheaded  in  the  Tower  on  the  6tli  <tf  July,  1536.    (See  CtmpMl's  Lives 
lord  Cka»eMor$,  and  Fnmd^s  History  of  Bnftmni.) 


318  CATHCAKt's    l.ITEKARY    READER. 

Howbeit,  whatever  I  intended,  I  shall  obey  his  Highness's  com- 
mand." 

He  afterwards  discussed  the  arrangements  for  the  funeral,  at  which 
he  begged  that  his  family  might  be  present ;  and  when  all  was  settled. 
Pope  rose  to  leave  him.  He  was  an  old  friend.  He  took  More's 
hand  and  wrung  it,  and,  quite  overcome,  burst  into  tears. 

"  Quiet  yourself,  Mr.  Pope,"  More  said,  "  and  be  not  discomfited, 
for  I  trust  we  shall  once  see  each  other  full  merrily,  when  we  shall 
live  and  love  together  in  eternal  bliss." 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone  he  dressed  in  his  most  elaborate  costume. 
It  was  for  the  benefit,  he  said,  of  the  executioner  who  was  to  do  him 
so  gri»t  a  service.*  Sir  William  Kingston  remonstrated,  and  with 
some  difficulty  induced  him  to  put  on  a  plainer  suit ;  but  that  his 
intended  liberality  should  not  fail,  he  sent  the  man  a  gold  angel  in 
compensition,  "  as  a  token  that  he  maliced  him  nothing,  but  ratlin 
loved  him  extremely." 

So  about  nine  of  the  clock  he  was  brought  by  the  Lieutenant  out 
of  the  Tower ;  his  beard  being  long,  which  fashion  he  had  never  be- 
fore used,  his  face  pale  and  lean,  carrying  in  his  hands  a  red  cross, 
casting  his  eyes  often  towards  heaven.  He  had  been  unpopular  as  a 
judge,  and  one  or  two  persons  in  the  crowd  were  insolent  to  him  ;  but 
the  distance  was  short  and  soon  over,  as  all  else  was  nearly  over  now. 

The  scaffold  hatl  been  awkwardly  erected,  and  shook  as  he  placed 
his  foot  upon  the  ladder.  "  See  me  safe  up,"  he  said  to  Kingston. 
"  Por  my  coming  down  I  can  shift  for  myself."  He  began  to  speak 
to  the  people,  but  the  sheriff  begged  him  not  to  proceed,  and  he  con- 
tented himself  with  asking  for  their  prayers,  and  desiring  them  to 
bear  witness  for  him  that  he  died  in  the  faith  of  the  holy  Catholic 
Church,  and  a  faithful  servant  of  Grod  and  the  king.  He  then  repeated 
the  Miserere  psjilmf  on  his  knees  ;  and  when  he  had  ended  and  had 
risen,  the  executioner,  with  an  emotion  which  promised  ill  for  the  man- 
ner in  which  his  part  in  the  tragedy  would  be  accomplished,  begged 
his  forgiveness.  More  kissed  him.  "  Thou  art  to  do  me  the  great- 
est benefit  that  I  can  receive,"  he  said.  *'  Pluck  up  thy  spirit,  man, 
and  be  not  afraid  to  do  thine  office.  My  neck  is  very  short.  Take 
heed,  therefore,  that  thou  strike  not  awry  for  saving  of  thine  honesty." 
The  executioner  offered  to  tie  his  eyes.     "  I  will  cover  them  myself," 

*  The  cjcecutioDcr  received  the  clothes  worn  by  the  sufferer. 
t  Psalm  IL 


FROUDE.  819 

he  said  ;  ftiid  binding;  them  in  a  cloth  which  he  had  brought  with 
him,  he  knelt,  and  laid  his  head  upon  the  block.  The  fatal  stroke 
was  about  to  fall,  when  he  signed  for  a  moment's  delay  while  he 
moved  aside  his  beard.  "  Pity  th:it  should  be  cut,"  he  murmured, 
"  tliat  has  not  committed  treason."  With  which  strange  words,  the 
strangest,  perhaps,  ever  uttered  at  such  a  time,  the  lips  most  famous 
through  Europe  for  eloquence  and  wisdom  closed  forever. 

"  So,"  concludes  his  biographer,  "  witli  alacrity  and  spiritual  joy  he 
received  tlie  fatal  ax,  which  no  sooner  had  severed  the  head  from  the 
body,  but  his  soul  was  carried  by  angels  into  everlasting  glory,  where 
a  crown  of  martyrdom  was  placed  upon  him  which  can  never  fade  nor 
decay ;  and  then  he  found  those  words  true  which  he  had  often  spoken, 
that  a  man  may  lose  his  head  and  have  no  harm." 

This  was  the  execution  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  an  act  which  sounded 
out  into  the  far  corners  of  the  earth,  and  was  the  world's  wonder  as 
well  for  the  circmnstances  under  which  it  was  perpetrated,  as  for  the 
preternatural  composure  with  which  it  was  borne.  Something  of  his 
calmness  may  have  been  due  to  his  natural  temperament,  something 
to  an  unaffected  weariness  of  a  world  which  in  his  eyes  was  plunging 
into  the  ruin  of  the  latter  days.  But  those  fair  hues  of  sunny  cheer- 
fidncss  caught  their  color  from  the  simplicity  of  his  faith ;  and  never 
was  there  a  Christian's  victory  over  death  more  grandly  evidenced  than 
in  that  last  scene  lighted  with  its  lambent  humor. 

THE  BOOK  OF  JOB. 

With  the  Book  of  Job  analytical  criticism  has  only  served  to  clear 
up  the  uncertainties  which  have  hitherto  always  hung  about  it.  It  is 
now  considered  to  be  beyond  all  doubt  a  genuine  Hebrew  original, 
completed  by  its  writer  almost  in  the  form  in  which  it  now  remains  to 
us.  It  is  the  most  diflicult  of  all  the  Hebrew  compositions,  —  many 
words  occurring  in  it,  and  many  thoughts,  not  to  be  found  elsewhere 
in  the  Bible.  How  difficult  our  translators  found  it  may  be  seen  by 
the  number  of  words  which  they  were  oblignl  to  insert  in  it^dies,  and 
tlir  doubtful  renderings  which  they  have  suggested  in  the  margin. 
Tiure  are  many  mythical  and  physical  allusions  sciittennl  over  the 
poem,  which,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  there  were  positively  no  means 
of  understanding ;  and  perhaps,  too,  there  were  mental  tendencies  in 
the  transUitors  themselves  which  prevented  them  from  adequately  ap- 
prehending even  the  drill  and  spirit  of  the  composition. 


'S'ZO  catucakt's  literary  reader. 

The  form  of  the  story  was  too  stringent  to  allow  such  tendencies 
any  latitude ;  but  they  appear,  from  time  to  time,  sufficiently  to  pro- 
duce serious  confusion.  With  these  recent  assistances,  therefore,  we 
propose  to  say  something  of  the  nature  of  this  extraordinary  book,  — 
a  book  of  which  it  is  to  say  little  to  call  it  unequaled  of  its  kind,  and 
which  will  one  day,  perhaps,  when  it  is  allowed  to  stand  on  its  own 
merits,  be  seen  toweriu":  up  alone,  far  away  above  all  the  poetry  of  the 
world.  How  it  found  its  way  into  the  canon,  smitinj^  as  it  does 
throu<j:h  and  through  the  most  deeply  seated  Jewish  prejudices,  is  the 
chief  difficulty  about  it  now  ;  to  be  explained  only  by  a  traditional 
acceptance  among  the  sacred  books,  dating  back  from  the  old  times 
of  the  national  greatness,  when  the  minds  of  the  people  were  hewn  in 
a  larger  type  than  was  to  be  found  among  the  Pharisees  of  the  great 
synagogue.  But  its  authorship,  its  date,  and  its  history  are  alike  a 
mystery  to  us  ;  it  existetl  at  the  time  when  the  canon  was  composed ; 
and  this  is  all  that  we  know  beyond  what  we  can  gather  out  of  the 
language  and  contents  of  the  poem  itself. 

The  conjectures  which  have  been  formed  upon  the  date  of  this 
book  are  so  various  that  they  show  of  themselves  on  how  slight  a 
foundation  the  best  of  them  must  rest.  The  language  is  no  guide,  for 
although  unquestionably  of  Hebrew  origin,  the  poem  bears  no  analogy 
to  any  of  the  other  books  in  the  Bible  ;  while  of  its  external  history 
nothing  is  known  at  all,  except  that  it  was  received  into  the  canon  at 
the  time  of  the  great  synagogue.  Ewald  decides,  with  some  confi- 
dence, that  it  belongs  to  the  great  prophetic  period,  and  that  the 
writer  was  a  contemporary  of  Jeremiah,  Ewald  is  a  high  authority 
in  these  matters,  and  this  opinion  is  the  one  which  we  believe  is  now 
commonly  received  among  biblical  scholars.  In  the  absence  of  proof, 
however  (and  the  reasons  which  he  brings  fonvard  are  really  no  more 
than  conjectures),  these  opposite  considerations  may  be  of  moment. 
It  is  only  natural  that  at  first  thought  we  should  ascribe  the  grandest 
poem  in  a  literature  to  the  time  at  which  the  poetry  of  the  nation  to 
wliich  it  belongs  was  generally  at  its  best ;  but,  on  reflection,  the  time 
when  the  poetiy  of  prophecy  is  the  richest,  is  not  likely  to  be  favor- 
able to  compositions  of  another  kind.  The  prophets  MTote  in  an  era 
of  decrepitude,  dissolution,  sin,  and  shame,  when  the  glory  of  Israel 
was  falling  round  them  into  ruin,  and  their  mission,  glowing  as  they 
were  wifh  the  ancient  spirit,  was  to  rebuke,  to  warn,  to  threaten,  and 
to    promise.     Finding   themselves   too  late   to  save,  and   only,  like 


FKOUDE.  321 

Cassandra,  despised  and  disregarded,  their  voices  rise  up  singing  the 
swan  song  of  a  dying  people,  now  falling  away  in  tlie  wild  wailing  of 
despondency  over  the  shameful  and  desperate  present,  now  swelling  in 
triumphant  hope  that  God  will  not  leave  them  forever,  and  in  his 
own  time  will  take  his  chosen  to  himself  again.  But  such  a  period 
is  an  ill  occasion  for  searching  into  the  broad  problems  of  human 
destiny ;  the  present  is  all-important  and  all-absorbing ;  and  such  a 
l)ook  as  that  of  Job  could  have  arisen  only  out  of  an  isolation  of  mind, 
anil  life,  and  interest,  which  we  cannot  conceive  of  as  possible  under 
such  conditions. 

The  more  it  is  studied,  the  more  the  conclusion  forces  itself  upon 
us  that,  let  the  writer  have  lived  when  he  would,  in  his  struggle  with 
the  central  falsehood  of  his  own  people's  creed,  he  must  have  divorced 
himself  from  them  outwardly  as  well  as  inwardly  ;  that  he  traveled 
away  into  the  world,  and  lived  long,  perhaps  all  his  matured  life,  in 
exUe.  Everything  about  the  book  speaks  of  a  person  who  had  broken 
free  from  the  narrow  littleness  of  "the  peculiar  people."  The  lan- 
guage, as  we  said,  is  full  of  strange  wonls.  The  hero  of  the  poem  is  of 
a  strange  land  and  parentage,  —  a  Grentile  certaiidy,  not  a  Jew.  The 
life,  the  manners,  the  customs,  are  of  all  varieties  and  places :  Egypt, 
with  its  river  and  its  pyramids,  is  there ;  the  description  of  mining 
points  to  Phoenicia;  the  settled  life  in  cities,  the  nomad  Arabs,  the 
wandering  caravans,  the  heat  of  the  tropics,  and  the  ice  of  the  north, 
all  are  foreign  to  Canaan,  speaking  of  foreign  things  and  foreign  peo- 
ple. No  mention,  or  hint  of  mention,  is  there  throughout  the  poem 
of  Jewish  traditions  or  Jewish  certainties.  We  look  to  find  the  three 
friends  vindicate  themselves,  as  they  so  well  might  have  done,  by 
a])])eal8  to  the  fertile  annals  of  Israel,  to  the  Flood,  to  the  cities  of  the 
])laiii,  to  the  plagues  of  Egj'pt,  or  the  thunders  of  Sinni.  But  of  all 
this  there  is  not  a  wonl ;  they  are  passed  by  as  if  they  had  no  exist- 
ence ;  and  instead  of  them,  when  witnesses  are  required  for  the  power 
of  God,  we  have  strange  nn-Hebrew  stories  of  the  Eastern  astronomic 
mythology,  the  old  wars  of  the  giants,  the  imprisoned  Orion,  the 
wounded  dnigon,  "  the  sweet  influences  of  the  seven  stars,"  and  the 
glittering  fragments  of  the  s<'a-snake  Rnhab*  trailing  across  the 
northern  sky.  Again,  God  is  not  the  God  of  Israel,  but  the  father 
of  mankind  ;  we  hear  nothing  of  a  chosen  people,  nothing  of  a  special 
re\'elation,  nothing  of  peculiar  privileges  ;  and  in  the  court  of  heaven 

•  Sfe  Evald  on  Job  ix.  13.  and  xxvl.  14. 


322  CATHC art's  lttbrary  reader. 

there  is  a  Satan,  not  the  prince  of  this  world  and  the  enemy  of  God, 
but  the  angel  of  judgment,  the  accusing  spirit  whose  mission  was  to 
walk  to  and  fro  over  the  earth,  and  carry  up  to  hciiven  an  account  of 
the  sins  of  mankind.  We  cannot  believe  that  thoughts  of  this  kind 
arose  out  of  Jerusalem  in  the  days  of  Josiah.  The  scenes,  the  names, 
and  the  incidents  are  all  contrived  as  if  to  baffle  curiosity,  —  as  if,  in 
the  very  form  of  the  poem,  to  teach  us  that  it  is  no  story  of  a  single 
thing  which  happened  once,  but  that  it  belongs  to  humanity  itself,  and 
is  the  drama  of  the  trial  of  man,  with  Almighty  God  and  the  angels 
as  the  spectators  of  it. 

No  reader  can  have  failed  to  have  been  struck  with  the  simplicity 
of  the  opening.  Still,  calm,  and  most  majestic,  it  tells  us  ever}  thing 
which  is  necessary  to  be  known  in  the  fewest  possible  words.  The 
history  of  Job  was  probably  a  tradition  in  the  East ;  his  name,  like 
that  of  Priam  in  Greece,  the  symbol  of  fallen  greatness,  and  his  mis- 
fortunes the  problem  of  philosophers.  In  keeping  with  the  current 
belief,  he  is  described  as  a  model  of  excellence,  the  most  perfect  and 
upright  man  upon  the  earth,  **  and  the  same  was  the  greatest  man  in  all 
the  east."  So  fur,  greatness  and  goodness  liad  gone  hand  in  hand  to- 
gether, as  the  popular  theory  required.  The  details  of  his  character  are 
brought  out  in  the  progress  of  the  poem.  He  was  "  the  father  of  the 
oppressed,  and  of  those  who  had  none  to  help  them."  When  he  sat  as 
a  judge  in  the  market-places,  "  righteousness  clothed  him  "  there,  and 
"  his  justice  was  a  robe  and  a  diadem."  He  "  broke  the  jaws  of  the 
wicked,  and  plucked  the  spoil  out  of  his  teeth  " ;  and.  humble  in  the 
midst  of  his  power,  he  "  did  not  despise  the  cause  of  his  man-servant, 
or  liis  maid-servant,  when  they  contended  with  him,"  knowing  that 
"He  who  had  made  him  had  made  them,"  and  one  *'  had  fashioned 
them  both  in  the  womb."  Above  all,  he  was  the  friend  of  the  poor; 
"  the  blessing  of  him  that  was  ready  to  perish  came  upon  him,"  and 
he  "  made  the  widow's  heart  to  sing  for  joy." 

Setting  these  characteristics  of  his  daily  life  by  the  side  of  his  un- 
affected piety,  as  it  is  described  in  the  first  chapter,  we  have  a  picture 
of  the  best  man  who  could  then  be  conceived ;  not  a  hard  ascetic, 
living  in  haughty  or  cowardly  isolation,  but  a  warm  figure  of  flesh 
and  blood,  a  man  full  of  all  human  loveliness,  and  to  whom  God  him- 
self bears  the  emphatic  testimony,  that  "  there  was  none  like  him  upon 
the  earth,  a  perfect  and  upright  man,  who  feared  God  and  eschewed 
evil." 


HELPS.  323 

HELPS. 

1818- 1875. 

Sm  AnTHU*  Hki.ph  wm  Iwrn  in  England  in  1818,  and  died  in  1878.  He  has  written  two 
clr»niatic  poems  of  more  tlrnn  average  merit,  but  is  best  known  by  his  essays,  in  which  depart- 
nii-nt  of  htereture  he  occupies  a  unique  and  very  bonorable  place.  His  most  popular  books  are 
/Vi';i  Is  in  Council  and  CompanioMs  of  my  Soliii<Je.  In  these  volumes  are  reported  the  conver- 
!«-i':.)n<i  of  a  com|uuiy  of  friends,  who  discuss  questions  of  various  \inds,  —  ethical,  social,  aod 
li.rnry.  English  literature  contains  nothing  in  the  shape  of  colloquial  essays  that  approaches 
til!'*.-  in  nuTit.  The  individuality  of  the  interlocutors  it  carefully  preserved,  and  the  reader 
n.-i|uir<-4  .1  personal  interest  in  each  hardly  subordinate  to  the  general  effect  of  the  wisdom  which 
tlii-y  in'.cnliange.  The  thcmght  of  these  essays  is  elfective  not  only  by  its  intrinsic  vigor  and  its 
w  iti  !ifiil  nftinity  for  the  mind  of  average  intelligence,  but  by  the  inimitable  grace  and  almost 
jii>.  i  i.n  '^-ntleness  of  its  expression.  No  writer  is  more  remote  from  dogmatism  than  Mr. 
Ii<  1^  but  his  opinions  bear  unmistakable  marks  of  maturity  and  fixedness.  His  felicity  of 
r  1-  :niian  is  hardly  surpassed,  and  the  tender  human  sympathy  which  warms  all  his  writings 
i  !  '. ->  him  very  near  to  his  readers.  Mr.  Helps  was  not  a  powerful  original  thinker;  but  he 
li  !  •:.'•  art  of  presenting  the  best  thought  in  the  most  impressive  and  persuasive  shape,  in  an 
■a',  i:  >  '  unequaled  degree,  and  of  calling  out  or  reanimating  ideas  which  have  been  latent  in  the 
ii;ii(U  rtf  his  readers.  There  are  no  essays  in  the  language,  save  perhaps  those  of  Macaulay, 
that  are  at  once  so  delightful  and  so  instructive  as  Mr.  Helps's.  The  subtile  and  sweet  influ- 
ence of  Mr  Helps's  writings  is  cordially  acknowledged  by  Mr.  Kuskin,  and  other  authoriutive 
critici  have  united  in  praise  of  the  serene  beauty  of  liia  style  and  the  stimulating  and  suggestive 
pDtiticv  of  his  philosophy.  He  was  the  author  of  two  novels,  or  rather  essays  in  the  form  of 
novels,  Ri-almak  and  Caaimir  Maremmm,  and  luul  lately  produced  an  historical  novel  of  Russian 
life  called  InoH  Je  Biron.  For  many  yeara  Mr.  Helps  held  an  oflicc  in  the  personal  service  of 
Queen  Victoria,  and  a  short  time  before  his  death  he  received  the  honor  of  knighthood. 

DISCOVEBT  OF  THE  PACIFIC  OCEAH. 

Vasco  NuSez  *  resolved,  therefore,  to  be  the  discoverer  of  that  seA 
and  of  those  rich  lands  to  which  Comagre's  son  had  pointed,  when, 
after  rebuking  the  Spaniards  for  their  '*  brabblifig  "  about  the  division 
of  the  gold,  he  turned  his  face  towards  the  south.  In  the  peril  which 
so  closely  impended  over  Vasco  Nunez  there  was  no  use  in  waiting 
for  reinforcements  from  Spain  :  when  those  reinforcements  should 
come,  his  dismissal  M'ould  come  too.  Accordingly,  early  in  Septem- 
ber, 1513,  he  set  out  on  his  renownetl  expedition  for  finding  "  the 
other  sea,"  accompani(>d  by  a  hundnxl  and  ninety  men  well  armed, 

*  Vasco  McSTez  db  Balboa.  A  rel^bratH  Spanish  nartgator  and  discorerer,  bora  aboat 
li7S     DJBseiubBS  baring  arisen  1'  partisans  of  an  expedition  which  had  landed  on 

tlic  IitluMBS  of  nuiama  in  1610,  <>'  1  was  a  nu-inber,  he  was  chosen  leader  of  the 

rxpoditioB,  and,  having  obtained  r< .  >  from  Columbus  at  Hispaniola,  he  proceeded  to 

explore  the  Isthmus  of  Darien,  and  on  the  itJih  of  September,  ISIS,  discovered  from  the  soataiit 
of  a  mountain  the  vast  expanse  of  the  Pacific  Ocean.  Like  Colambos  he  was  traduced  by  Jcaloas 
nxaU.  and  wn«  finally  executed  on  a  charge  of  traaaonabk  deaigns  in  ISI7.  (See  Iniag** 
t\>f)aijts  iinJ  Ihtcrrrifs  of  Ike  ComjkimioMt  <tf  Cottimttu.) 


324  ^ATIK^\UT^S    LITERARY     READER. 

and   by  dogs,  which  wen;   oi   more  avail   than   men,  and  by  Indian 
slaves  to  carry  the  burdens. 

Polio  wing  Poncha's  guide,  Vasco  Nuiiez  and  his  men  commenced 
the  ascent  of  the  mountains,  until  he  ent^Tcd  the  country  of  un  Indian 
chief  called  Quarcqim,  whom  they  found  fully  prepared  to  resist  them. 
The  brave  Indian  advanced  at  the  head  of  his  troops,  intending  to 
make  a  vigorous  att;ick ;  but  they  could  not  withstand  the  discharsrc 
of  the  fire-arms.  Indeed,  they  believed  the  Spaniards  to  have  thn 
der  and  lightning  in  their  hands, —  not  an  unreasonable  fancy,  —  ana, 
flying  in  the  utmost  terror  from  the  place  of  battle,  a  total  rout  ensued. 
The  rout  was  a  bloody  one,  and  is  described  by  an  author,  who  gained 
Ills  information  from  those  who  were  present  at  it,  as  a  scene  to 
remind  one  of  the  shambles.  The  king  and  his  principal  men  were 
slain,  to  the  number  of  six  hundred. 

Speaking  of  these  people,  Peter  Martyr  makes  mention  of  the 
sweetness  of  their  language,  saying  that  all  the  words  in  it  might  be 
written  in  Latin  letters,  as  was  also  to  be  remarked  in  that  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Hispaniola.  TJiis  writer  also  mentions,  and  there  is 
reason  for  thinking  that  he  was  correctly  informed,  that  there  was  a 
region,  not  two  days*  journey  from  Quarequa's  territory,  in  which 
Vasco  Nunez  found  a  race  of  black  men,  who  were  conjectured  to 
haye  come  from  Africa,  and  to  have  been  shipwrecked  on  this  coast. 
Leaving  several  of  his  men,  who  were  ill,  or  over-weary,  in  Quarequa's 
chief  town,  and  taking  with  him  guides  from  this  country,  the  Spanish 
commander  pursued  his  way  up  the  most  lofty  sierras  there,  until,  on 
the  25th  of  September,  1513,  he  came  near  the  top  of  a  mountain  from 
whence  the  South  Sea  was  visible.  The  distance  from  Poncha's  chief 
town  to  this  point  was  forty  leagues,  reckoned  then  six  days*  journey ; 
but  Vasco  Nunez  and  his  men  took  twenty-five  days  to  accomplish  it, 
as  they  suffered  much  from  the  roughness  of  the  ways  and  from  the 
want  of  provisions. 

A  little  before  Vasco  Nunez  reached  the  height,  Quarequa's  Indians 
informed  him  of  his  near  approach  to  the  sea.  It  was  a  sight  in 
beholding  which  for  the  first  time  any  man  would  wish  to  be  alone. 
Vasco  Nunez  bade  his  men  sit  down  while  he  ascended,  and  then, 
in  solitude,  looked  down  upon  the  vast  Pacific,  —  the  first  man  of 
the  Old  World,  so  far  as  we  know,  who  had  done  so.  Falling  on 
his  knees,  he  gave  thanks  to  God  for  the  favor  shown  to  him,  in  his 
being  permitted  to  discover  the  sea  of  the  South.     Then  with  his 


HELPS.  325 

hand  he  beckoned  to  liis  men  to  corae  up.  When  they  had  come, 
both  he  and  they  knelt  down,  and  poured  forth  their  thanks  to  God.  . 

He  then  addressed  them  in  these  words  :  '*  You  see  here,  gentlemen 
and  children  mine,  how  our  desires  are  being  accompli  shed,  and  the 
end  of  otfr  Itilmrs.  Of  tliat  we  ought  to  lie  cerUiin  ;  for,  as  it  has 
turned  out  true,  what  King  Comagre's  son  told  of  this  sea  to  us,  who 
never  thought  to  see  it,  so  I  hold  for  certain  that  what  he  told  us  of 
there  being  incomparable  treasures  in  it  will  be  fulfilled.  God  and 
His  Blessed  Mother,  who  have  assisted  us,  so  that  we  should  arrive 
here  and  behold  this  sea,  will  favor  us,  that  we  may  enjoy  all  tlmt 
there  is  in  it."  Afterward,  they  all  devoutly  sang  the  "  Te  Deum 
Laudamus  " ;  and  a  list  was  drawn  up,  by  a  notary,  of  those  who 
were  present  at  thi§  discovery,  which  was  made  upon  St.  Martin's 
day. 

Every  great  and  original  action  has  a  prospective  greatness,  —  not 
alone  from  the  thought  of  the  man  who  achieves  it,  but  from  the  vari- 
ous aspects  and  high  thoughts  which  the  same  action  will  continue  to 
present  and  call  up  in  the  minds  of  others  to  the  end,  it  may  be,  of 
all  time.  And  so  a  remarkable  event  may  go  on  acquiring  more  and 
more  significance.  In  this  case,  our  knowledge  that  the  Pacific,  which 
Vasco  Nunez  then  beheld,  occupies  more  than  one  half  of  the  earth's 
surface,  is  an  element  of  thought  which  in  our  minds  lightens  up  and 
gives  an  awe  to  this  first  gaze  of  his  upon  those  mighty  waters. 

Having  thus  addressed  his  men,  Vasco  Nunez  proceeded  to  take 
formal  possession,  on  behalf  of  the  kings  of  Castile,  of  the  sea,  and 
of  all  that  was  in  it ;  and  in  order  to  make  memorials  of  the  event, 
he  cut  down  trees,  formed  crosses,  and  heaped  up  stones.  He  also 
inscribed  the  names  of  the  monarchs  of  Castile  upon  great  trees  in 
the  vicinity. 

BEADING. 

As  the  world  grows  older  and  as  civilization  advances,  there  is 
likely  to  be  more  and  more  time  given  to  reading.  In  several  parts 
of  the  earth  where  mankind  are  most  active,  and  where  the  propor- 
tion of  those  who  need  to  lalK)r  by  their  hands  is  less  than  in  other 
countries,  and  likely  to  go  on  becoming  less,  the  climate  is  such  as  to 
confine,  if  it  does  not  repress,  out-of-door  amusements ;  and,  in  all 
climates,  for  the  lovers  of  ease,  the  delicate  in  health,  the  reserved,  the 
fastidious,  and  the  musing,  books  are  amongst  the  chief  sources  of 


^26  CATUCAiiT's    LITERARY    READER. 

delight,  and  such  as  will  more  probably  intrench  upon  other  joys  and 
occupations  than  give  way  to  them. 

If  we  consider  what  are  the  objects  men  pursue,  when  conscious  of 
any  object  at  all,  in  reading,  they  are  these  :  amusement,  instruction, 
a  wish  to  appear  well  in  society,  and  a  desire  to  pass  away  time. 
Now  even  the  lowest  of  these  objects  is  facilitated  by  reading  with 
method.  The  keenness  of  pursuit  tlius  engendered  enriches  the  most 
trifling  gain,  takes  away  the  sense  of  dullness  in  details,  and  gives  an 
interest  to  what  would,  otherwise,  be  most  repugnant.  No  one  wlio 
has  never  known  the  eager  joy  of  some  intellectual  pursuit,  can  un- 
derstand the  full  pleasure  of  n'ading.  In  considering  the  present 
subject,  the  advantage  to  the  world  in  general  of  many  persons  being 
really  versed  in  various  subjects  cannot  be  passed  by.  And  were 
reading  wisely  undertiiken,  much  more  method  and  order  would  be 
applied  to  the  consideration  of  the  immediate  business  of  the  world. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  tlmt  this  choice  and  maintenance  of  one  or 
more  subjects  of  study  must  necessarily  lead  to  pc-dantry  or  narrow- 
ness of  mind.  The  Arts  are  sisters  ;  Languages  are  close  kindred  . 
Sciences  are  fellow -workmen ;  almost  every  branch  of  Imman  knowl- 
edge is  immediately  connected  with  biography;  biography  falls  into 
histor}',  which,  after  drawing  into  itself  various  minor  streams,  such  as 
geography,  jurisprudence,  political  and  social  economy,  issues  forth 
upon  the  still  deeper  waters  of  general  philosophy.  There  are  very 
few,  if  any,  vacant  spaces  between  various  kinds  of  knowledge :  any 
track  in  the  forest,  steadfastly  pursued,  leads  into  one  of  the  great 
highways  ;  just  as  you  often  tind,  in  considering  the  story  of  any  little 
island,  that  you  are  perpetually  brought  l^ack  into  the  general  history 
of  the  world,  and  that  this  small  rocky  place  has  partaken  the  fate  of 
mighty  thrones  and  distant  empires.  In  short,  all  things  are  so  con- 
nected together,  that  a  man  who  knows  one  subject  well  cannot,  if  he 
would,  fail  to  have  acquired  much  besides :  and  that  man  will  not  be 
likely  to  keep  fewer  pearls  who  has  a  string  to  put  them  on,  than  he 
who  picks  them  up  and  throws  them  together  without  method. 
This,  however,  is  a  very  poor  metaphor  to  represent  the  matter ;  for 
what  I  would  aim  at  producing,  not  merely  holds  together  what  is 
gained,  but  has  vitality  in  itself,  is  always  growing.  And  anybody 
will  confirm  this  who,  in  his  own  case,  has  had  any  branch  of  study 
or  human  aflairs  to  work  upon  ;  for  he  must  have  observed  how  all 
he  meets  seems  to  work  in  with,  and  assimilate  itself  to,  his  own  pecu- 


HELPS.  827 

liar  subject.  During  his  lonely  walks,  or  in  society,  or  in  action,  it 
seems  as  if  this  one  pursuit  were  something  almost  indeptMident  of 
himself,  always  ou  tho  u.iirli  .nul  rlainiiug  its  sii  ire  in  wliatcwr  is 
going  on. 

Again,  l)y  recomnuMuiiug  some  ciiou'c  of  subject,  and  nu-thod  in  the 
pursuit  of  it,  I  do  not  wish  to  be  held  to  a  narrow  interpretation  of 
that  word  "  subject."  For  example,  I  can  imagine  a  man  sjiying,  I 
do  not  care  particularly  to  investigate  this  or  that  question  in  his- 
tory ;  I  am  not  going  to  pursue  any  branch  of  science ;  but  I  have  a 
desire  to  know  what  the  most  renowned  men  have  written  :  I  will 
see  what  tiie  twenty  or  thirty  great  poets  have  said  ;  what  in  various 
ages  has  appeareil  the  best  expression  of  the  things  nearest  to  the 
heart  and  fancy  of  man.  A  person  of  more  adventure  and  more  time 
might  seek  to  include  the  greatest  writers  in  morals  or  history. 
There  are  not  so  many  of  them.  If  a  man  were  to  read  a  hundred 
great  authors,  he  would,  I  suspect,  liave  heard  what  mankind  has  yet 
had  to  say  upon  most  things.  I  am  aware  of  the  culture  that  would 
be  required  for  such  an  enterprise;  but  I  merely  give  it  as  an  in- 
stance of  what  may  justly  come  under  the  head  of  the  pursuit  of  one 
subject,  as  I  mean  it,  and  which  certainly  would  not  be  called  a  nar- 
row purpose. 

There  is  another  view  of  reading,  which,  though  it  is  obvious 
enough,  is  seldom  taken,  I  imagine,  or  at  least  acted  upon  ;  and  that 
is,  that,  in  the  course  of  our  reading,  we  should  lay  up  in  our  minds 
a  store  of  goodly  thoughts  in  well-wrought  words,  which  should  be 
a  living  treasure  of  knowledge  always  with  us,  and  from  which  at 
various  times,  and  amidst  all  the  shifting  of  circumstances,  we  might 
l)e  sure  of  drawing  some  comfort,  guidance,  and  sympathy.  We  see 
this  with  regard  to  the  sacred  writings.  "A  word  spoken  in  due 
season,  how  good  is  it !  "  But  there  is  a  similar  comfort  on  a  lower 
level  to  be  obtained  from  other  sources  than  sacred  ones.  In  any 
work  that  is  worth  carefully  reading  there  is  generally  something  that 
IS  worth  remembering  accurately.  A  man  whose  mind  is  enriched 
with  the  best  sayings  of  the  poets  of  his  own  country  is  a  more  in- 
deptMident man,  walks  the  strcn-ts  in  a  town,  or  the  lanes  in  the  coun- 
try, with  far  more  delight  than  he  otherwise  would  have  ;  and  is 
taught,  by  wise  observers  of  man  and  natun*,  to  examine  for  himself. 
Suncho  Panza  with  his  proverlw  is  a  great  deal  better  than  he  would 
have  been  without  them :  and  I  oontend  that  a  man  has  something  in 


328  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

himself  to  meet  troubles  and  difficulties,  small  or  great,  who  has 
stored  in  his  mind  some  of  the  best  thinp^s  which  have  been  said  about 
troubles  and  difficulties.  Moreover,  the  loneliness  of  sorrow  is  there- 
by diminished. 

It  need  not  be  feared  that  a  man  whose  memory  is  rich  in  such  re- 
sources will  become  a  quoting  pedant.  Often,  the  sayings  which  are 
dearest  to  our  hearts  are  least  frequent  on  our  lips  ;  and  those  great 
ideas  which  cheer  men  in  their  direst  struggles,  are  not  things  which 
they  are  likely  to  inflict  by  frequent  repetition  upon  those  they  live 
with.  There  is  a  cerUiin  reticmro  \\\th  ii«  n*  rcir-n-ds  nnytliiiiir  wp 
deeply  love. 

I  have  not  hitherto  spoken  of  the  indirect  advantage  of  methodical 
reading  in  the  culture  of  the  mind.  One  of  the  dangers  supposed  to 
be  incident  upon  a  life  of  study  is,  that  purpose  and  decisiveness  are 
worn  away.  Not,  as  I  contend,  upon  a  life  of  study,  such  as  it 
ought  to  be.  For,  pursued  methodically,  there  must  be  some,  and 
not  a  little,  of  the  decision,  resistance,  and  tenacity  of  pursuit  which 
create,  or  further,  greatness  of  character  in  action.  Though,  as  I 
have  said,  there  are  times  of  keen  delight  to  a  man  who  is  engaged  in 
any  distinct  pursuit,  there  are  also  moments  of  weariness,  vexation. 
and  vacillation,  which  will  try  the  metal  in  him  and  see  whether  li« 
is  worthy  to  understand  and  master  anything.  For  this  you  m; 
observe  that,  in  all  times  and  all  nations,  sacrifice  is  needed.  The 
savage  Indian  who  was  to  obtain  any  insight  into  the  future  had  to 
starve  for  it  for  a  certain  time.  Even  the  fancy  of  this  power  Was  not 
to  he  gained  Avithout  paying  for  it.  And  was  anything  real  ever 
gained  without  sacrifice  of  some  kind  ? 


It  cannot  have  escaped  the  notice  of  any  one  who  has  had  much 
experience,  that  human  life  is  a  system  of  cunningly  devised  cliecks 
and  counter-checks.  This  is  easily  seen  in  considering  physical 
things,  —  such,  for  instance,  as  the  human  body.  One  of  these  bodies 
has  a  particular  disorder.  You  could  cure  it  by  a  certain  remedy,  if 
that  remedy  could  be  continued  far  enough  ;  but  it  cannot,  as  it 
would  produce  another  disorder.  The  same  law  holds  good  through- 
out life ;  and  sometimes,  where  there  is  an  appearance  of  the  power 
of  free  movement  in  many  directions,  there  is  in  reality  a  check  to 
movement  in  every  one. 


RU8KIN.  329 

RUSKIN. 
1819- 

JoH.'«  RcsKiN,  who  has  riaen  to  be  an  authority  of  last  resort  in  all  questions  pertaining  to 
Art,  is  a  native  of  London,  where  he  was  bom  in  1819.  He  was  educated  at  Uxford,  where  ho 
Won  the  Ncwdigatc  Phxe  for  English  Poetry,  and  has  devoted  his  wliolc  life  to  tlie  study  and 
fxjMisition  of  Art.  He  has  written  many  books,  most  of  which  treat  of  archit^^cture  and  jwiuting. 
His  first  work  was  Modem  Paimters,  whicli  at  once  established  his  reputation.  It  elicited  pro- 
fuse criticism,  which  in  effect  was  fa\-orable  ;  but  high  authorities  severely  censured  it  as  illogi- 
cal and  as  extra »-agant  in  style.  Among  his  best-known  works  arc  The  Seven  Lamiu  of  Architec- 
ture, The  StoHct  of  Feniee,  and  Lectures  on  Jrchiteeture  and  Paint'tHg.  Within  a  few  years  he 
has  given  much  attention  to  questions  of  Political  Economy.  On  no  modern  writer  liave  praise 
!\nd  blame  l>ei-n  bestowed  in  so  great  volumes  and  in  so  nearly  equal  measures.  In  the  early 
years  of  his  career  it  is  undoubtedly  true  that  the  weight  of  critical  authority  was  against  him ; 
hut  to-day  his  hold  ui»n  the  popular  respect  seems  to  be  firmer  tlum  ever.  His  arrogance  and 
dogmatism  have  cost  him  many  friends,  and  the  eccentricities  of  his  style  — which,  liowever,  is 
marvrlously  forcible,  and  vigorous  with  a  certain  wild  beauty  —  have  repelled  many  readers  from 
his  books.  But  it  is  impossible  not  to  admire  his  earnestness,  his  unquestionable  love  of  truth, 
ft  ml  ills  honest  detcsUtioo  of  shams.  He  has  done  more  than  miy  other  living  writer  to  stimu- 
late the  pulilir  interest  in  Art,  and  to  formulate  sound  theories  atwut  it. 

WATEB. 

Of  all  inorj^anic  substances,  acting  in  their  own  proper  nature, 
and  without  assistance  or  combination,  water  is  the  most  wonderful. 
If  we  think  of  it  as  the  source  of  all  the  changefulness  and  beauty 
whicli  we  have  seen  in  clouds ;  then  as  the  instrument  by  which  the 
earth  we  have  contemplated  was  modeled  into  symmetry,  and  its  crags 
■  Ird  into  grace;  then  as,  in  the  form  of  snow,  it  robes  the  moun- 
-  it  has  made  with  that  transcendent  light  which  we  could  not 
have  conceived  if  we  had  not  seen  ;  then  as  it  exists  in  the  foam  of 
the  torrent,  — in  the  iris  which  spans  it,  in  the  morning  mist  which 
rises  from  it,  in  the  deep  crystalline  pools  which  mirror  its  hanging 
shore,  ill  the  broad  lake  and  glancing  river ;  finally,  in  that  which  is 
to  all  human  minds  the  lx»st  emblem  of  unwearied,  nnconqut^rable 
power,  the  wild,  various,  fantastic,  tameless  unity  of  the  sea ;  what 
shall  we  compare  to  this  mighty,  this  universal  element,  for  glory  and 
for  beauty  ?  or  how  shall  we  follow  its  eternal  changefulness  of  feel- 
ing?    It  is  like  trying  to  paint  a  soul. 

Few  people,  comparatively,  have  ever  seen  the  effect  on  the  sea  of  a 
powerful  gule  continued  without  intermission  for  three  or  four  days 
and  nighU,  and  to  those  who  have  not  I  believe  it  must  be  unimagin- 
able, not  from  the  mere  force  or  size  of  surge,  but  from  the  complete 


i 


330  cathcart's  liteilaky  reader. 

annihilation  of  the  limit  between  sea  and  air.  The  water  from  its 
prolonged  agitation  is  beaten,  not  into  mere  creaming  foam,  bnt  into 
masses  of  accumulated  yeast,  which  hang  in  ropes  and  wreaths  from 
wave  to  wave,  and  where  one  curls  over  to  break,  form  a  festoon  like 
a  drapery,  from  its  edge ;  these  are  taken  up  by  the  wind,  not  in  dis- 
sipating dust,  but  bodily,  in  writhing,  lianging,  coiling  masses,  which 
make  the  air  white  and  thick  as  with  snow,  only  the  flakes  are  a  foot 
or  two  long  each  ;  the  surges  themselves  arc  full  of  foam  in  their  very 
Ixxlics,  underneath,  making  them  white  all  through,  as  the  water  is 
under  a  great  cataract ;  and  their  masses,  being  thus  half  water  and 
half  air,  are  torn  to  pieces  by  the  wind,  whenever  they  rise,  and  car- 
ried away  in  roaring  smoke,  which  chokes  and  strangles  like  actual 
water.  Add  to  this,  that  when  the  air  has  been  exhausted  of  its 
moisture  by  long  rain,  the  spniy  of  the  sea  is  caught  by  it,  and  covt 
its  surface  not  merely  with  the  smoke  of  finely  divided  water,  but 
with  boiling  mist ;  imagine  also  tlic  low  rain-clouds  brought  down  to 
the  very  level  of  the  sea,  as  I  have  often  seen  them,  whirling  and  fly- 
ing in  rags  and  fragments  from  wave  to  wave ;  and,  finally,  conceive  the 
surges  themselves  in  their  utmost  pitch  of  power,  velocity,  vastness, 
and  matlness,  lifting  themselves  in  precipict^s  and  peaks,  furrowetl  with 
their  whirl  of  ascent,  through  all  this  chaos,  and  you  will  understand 
that  there  is,  indeed,  no  distinction  left  between  the  sea  and  air ;  that 
no  object,  nor  horizon,  nor  any  hmdmark  or  natural  evidence  of  posi- 
tion is  left;  that  the  heaven  is  all  spray,  and  the  ocean  all  cloud,  and 
that  you  can  see  no  farther  in  any  direction  than  you  could  see  through 
a  cataract.  Few  people  have  had  the  opportunity  of  seeing  the  sea  at 
such  a  time,  and  when  they  have,  cannot  face  it.  To  hold  by  a  mast 
or  a  rock,  and  watch  it,  is  a  prolonged  endurance  of  drowning  which 
few  people  have  courage  to  go  through.  To  those  who  have,  it  is  one 
of  the  noblest  lessons  of  nature. 

All  rivers,  small  or  large,  agree  in  one  character ;  they  like  to  lean 
a  little  on  one  side ;  they  cannot  bear  to  have  their  channels  deepest 
in  the  middle,  but  will  always,  if  they  can,  have  one  bank  to  sun 
themselves  upon,  and  another  to  get  cool  under ;  one  shingly  shore  to 
play  over,  where  they  may  be  shallow,  and  foolish,  and  childlike  ;  and 
another  steep  shore,  under  which  they  can  pause  and  purify  them- 
selves, and  get  their  strength  of  waves  fully  together  for  due  occasions. 
Rivers  in  this  way  are  just  like  wise  men,  who  keep  one  side  of  their 
life  for  play  and  another  for  work ;  and  can  be  brilliant,  and  chatter- 


RUSKIN.  331 

ing,  and  transparent  when  they  arc  at  ease,  and  yet  take  deep  counsel 
on  the  other  side  when  they  set  themselves  to  the  main  purpose.  And 
rivers  are  just  in  this  divided,  also,  like  wicked  and  good  men ;  the 
good  rivers  have  serviceable  deep  places  all  along  their  banks  that 
ships  can  sail  in,  but  the  wicked  rivers  go  scoopingly,  irregubirly, 
under  their  Ixinks  until  they  get  full  of  strangling  edtlies,  which  no 
boat  can  row  over  without  being  twisted  against  the  rocks,  and  pools 
like  wells  which  no  one  can  get  out  of  but  the  water-kelpie  that  lives 
at  the  bottom ;  but,  wicked  or  good,  the  rivers  all  agree  in  having  two 
sides. 

When  water,  not  in  very  great  body,  runs  in  a  rocky  bed  much  in- 
temipted  by  hollows,  so  that  it  can  rest  every  now  and  then  in  a  pool 
as  it  goes  along,  it  does  not  acquire  a  continuous  velocity  of  motion. 
It  pauses  after  every  leap,  and  curdles  about,  and  rests  a  little,  and 
then  goes  on  again ; .  and  if  in  this  comparatively  tranquil  and  rational 
state  of  mind  it  meets  with  an  obstacle,  as  a  rock  or  stone,  it  parts  on 
each  side  of  it  with  a  little  bubbling  foam,  and  goes  round  ;  if  it  comes 
to  a  step  in  its  bed,  it  leaps  it  lightly,  and  then  after  a  little  pUishing 
at  the  bottom,  stops  again  to  take  breath.  But  if  its  bed  be  on  a 
continuous  slo|)e,  not  much  interrnpted  by  hollows,  so  that  it  cannot 
rest,  or  if  its  own  mass  be  so  increased  by  flood  that  its  usual  resting- 
places  are  not  sufficient  for  it,  but  that  it  is  perpetually  pushed  out  of 
them  by  the  following  cuiTent,  l>efore  it  has  had  time  to  tranquilize 
itself,  it  of  course  gains  velocity  with  every  yard  that  it  runs ;  the 
impetus  got  at  one  leap  is  carried  to  the  credit  of  the  next,  until  the 
whole  stream  becomes  one  mass  of  unchecked,  accelerating  motion. 
Now  when  water  in  this  state  comes  to  an  obstacle,  it  does  not  p<irt 
at  it,  but  clears  it  like  a  race-horse ;  and  when  it  comes  to  a  hollow, 
it  does  not  fill  it  up  and  run  out  leisurely  at  the  other  side,  but  it 
rushes  down  into  it  and  comes  up  again  on  the  other  side,  as  a  ship 
into  the  hollow  of  the  sea.  Hence  the  whole  appearance  of  the  bed 
of  the  stream  is  changed,  and  all  the  lines  of  the  water  altered  in  their 
nature. 

The  quiet  stream  is  a  succession  of  leaps  and  pools ;  the  leaps  are 
light  and  springy,  and  parabolic,  and  make  a  great  deal  of  splashing 
when  they  tumble  into  the  pool  ;  then  we  have  a  space  of  quiet  curd- 
ling water,  and  another  similar  leap  Ix-low.  Bnt  the  stream  when  it 
has  gained  an  imixtns  takes  the  shajM;  of  its  Intl,  never  stops,  is  equally 
deep  and  equally  swifb  e^ery whore,  goes  down  into  every  hollow,  not 


i5o2  CATHCART^S    LITEEARY    READER. 

with  a  leap,  but  with  a  swing,  not  foaming,  nor  splashing,  but  in  the 
bending  line  of  a  strong  sea-wave,  and  comes  up  again  on  the  othtr 
side,  ovi^T  rock  and  ridge,  with  the  ease  of  a  bounding  leopard ;  if  it 
meet  a  rock  three  or  four  feet  above  the  level  of  its  bed,  it  will  neither 
part  nor  foam,  nor  express  any  conc.TU  alwut  the  matter,  but  dear  it  in 
a  smooth  dome  of  water,  without  apparent  exertion,  coming  down  again 
as  smoothly  on  the  other  side  ;  the  whole  surface  of  the  surge  l)eiii_ 
drawn  into  parallel  lines  by  its  extreme  velocity,  but  foamless,  excei-i 
in  places  where  the  form  of  the  bed  opposes  itself  at  some  direct  angl» 
to  such  a  line  of  fall,  and  causes  a  breaker ;  so  that  the  whole  rivir 
has  the  appearance  of  a  deep  and  raging  sea,  with  this  only  difference, 
that  the  torrent-waves  always  break  backwards,  and  sea-waves  for- 
wards. Thus,  then,  in  the  water  which  has  gained  an  impetus,  we 
have  the  most  exquisite  arrangements  of  curved  lines,  perpetually 
changing  from  convex  to  concave,  and  vice  versa,  following  every 
swell  and  hollow  of  the  bed  with  their  modulating  grace,  and  all  in 
unison  of  motion,  presenting  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  series  of  in- 
organic forms  which  nature  can  possibly  produce ;  for  the  sea  i*uns 
too  much  into  similar  and  concave  curves  with  sharp  edges,  but 
every  motion  of  the  torrent  is  united,  and  all  its  curves  are  modifica- 
tions of  beautiful  lines. 

THE  CLOUDS. 

Stand  upon  the  peak  of  some  isolated  mountain  at  daybreak,  when 
the  night-mists  first  rise  from  oflf  the  plains,  and  watch  their  white 
and  lake-like  fields  as  thev  float  in  level  bavs  and  windinir  STulfs 
about  the  islanded  summits  of  the  lower  hills,  untouched  yet  by  more 
than  dawn,  colder  and  more  quiet  than  a  windless  sea  under  the  moon 
of  midnight.  Wat^-h  when  the  first  sunl)eam  is  sent  upon  the  silver 
channels,  how  the  foam  of  their  undulating  surface  parts  and  passes 
away;  and  down  under  their  depths  the  glittering  city  and  green  pas- 
ture lie,  like  Atlantis,  between  the  white  paths  of  winding  rivers ;  the 
flakes  of  light  falling  every  moment  faster  and  broader  among  the 
spires,  starry  as  the  wreathed  surges  break  and  vanish  above  them,  and 
the  confused  crests  and  ridges  of  the  dark  hills  shorten  their  gray 
shadows  upon  the  plain. 

Wait  a  little  longer,  and  you  shall  see  those  scattered  mists  rallying 
in  the  ravines  and  floating  up  towards  you,  along  the  winding  valleys, 
till  they  couch  in  quiet  masses,  iridescent  with  the  morning  light, 


RU8K1N.  333 

upon  the  broad  breasts  of  the  hij^er  liills,  whose  leagues  of  massy 
uiitlulatiou  will  melt  back  and  l)ack  into  that  robe  of  material  light, 
until  they  fatle  away,  lost  in  its  luster,  to  appear  again  above,  in  the 
serene  heaven,  like  a  wild,  bright,  impossible  dream,  fouudationless 
and  inaercssible,  their  very  bases  vanisliing  in  the  unsubstantial  and 
mocking  blue  of  the  deep  lake  below.  Wait  yet  a  little  longer, 
and  you  shall  see  those  mists  gather  themselves  into  white  towers, 
and  stand  like  fortresses  along  the  promontories,  massy  and  motion- 
less, only  piling  with  every  instant  higher  and  higher  into  the  sky, 
and  casting  longer  shadows  athwart  the  rocks ;  and  out  of  tlie  pale 
blue  of  the  horizon  you  will  see  forming  and  advancing  a  troop  of 
narrow,  dark,  pointed  vapors,  which  will  cover  the  sky,  inch  by  inch, 
with  their  gray  network,  and  take  the  light  off  the  landscape  with  an 
eclipse  which  will  stop  the  singing  of  the  birds  and  the  motion  of  the 
leaves  togetlier ;  and  then  you  will  see  horizontal  bars  of  black 
shadow  forming  under  them,  and  lurid  wreaths  create  themselves,  you 
know  not  how,  along  the  shoulders  of  the  hills  ;  you  never  see  them 
form,  but  when  you  look  back  to  a  place  which  was  clear  an  instant 
ago,  there  is  a  cloud  on  it,  hanging  by  the  precipices,  as  a  hawk 
pauses  over  his  prey. 

And  then  you  will  hear  the  sudden  rush  of  the  awakened  wind,  and 
you  will  see  those  watch-towers  of  vapor  swept  away  from  their  foun- 
dations, and  waving  curtains  of  opaque  rain  let  down  to  the  valleys, 
swinging  from  the  burdened  clouds  in  black,  bending  fringes,  or  pacing 
in  pale  columns  along  the  lake  level,  grazing  its  surface  into  foam  as 
they  go.  And  then,  as  the  sun  sinks,  you  shall  see  the  storm  drift 
for  an  instant  from  off  the  hills,  leaving  their  broad  sides  smoking, 
and  loaded  yet  with  snow-white,  torn,  steam-like  rags  of  capricious 
vapor,  now  gone,  now  gathered .  again  ;  while  the  smoldering  sun, 
seeming  not  far  away,  but  burning  like  a  red-hot  Iwill  beside  you,  and 
as  if  yon  could  reach  it,  plunges  through  the  rushing  wind  and  rolling 
cloud  with  headlong  fall,  as  if  it  meant  to  rise  no  more,  dyeing  all  the 
air  about  it  with  blood.  And  then  you  shall  hear  the  fainting  tempest 
die  in  the  hollow  of  the  night,  and  yon  shall  .see  a  green  halo  kindling 
on  the  summit  of  the  eastern  hills,  brighter  —  brighter  yet,  till  the 
large  white  circle  of  the  slow  moon  is  lifted  up  among  the  barred 
clouds,  step  by  step,  line  by  line ;  star  after  star  she  quenches  with 
her  kindling  light,  setting  in  their  stead  an  army  of  pale,  penetrable, 
fleecy  wreaths  in  the  heaven,  to  give  light  upon  the  earth,  which  mov:: 


O'ii'  (JAIJILAKI   JS    LlTtUAKY     KKADKK. 

together  hand  in  liand,  company  by  company,  troop  by  troop,  so 
measured  in  their  unity  of  motion,  tliat  the  whole  heaven  seems  to 
roll  with  them,  and  the  earth  to  reel  uuder  them. 

And  then  wait  yet  for  one  hour,  until  the  east  again  becomes  purple, 
and  the  heaving  mountains,  rolling  against  it  in  darkness,  like  waves  ot 
a  wild  sea,  are  drowned  one  by  one  in  the  glory  of  its  burning ;  watch 
the  whit*i  glaciers  blaze  in  their  winding  paths  about  the  mountains, 
like  mighty  serpents  with  scales  of  lii*e  ;  watch  the  columnar  peaks  of 
solitary  snow,  kindling  downwards,  chasm  by  chasm,  each  in  itself  a 
new  morning;  their  long avalanclies  cast  down  in  keen  streams  bright- 
er than  the  lightning,  sending  each  his  tribute  of  driven  snow,  likt 
altar-smoke,  up  to  the  heavtrn ;  the  rose-light  of  their  silent  donu  > 
flushing  that  heaven  alx)ut  them  and  above  them,  piercing  with  pun  r 
light  through  its  purple  Hues  of  lifted  cloud,  casting  a  new  glory  on 
every  wreath  as  it  passes  by,  mitil  the  whole  heaven  —  one  scarh  t 
canopy  —  is  intenvovcn  with  a  roof  of  waving  flame,  and  tossinj:, 
vault  beyond  vault,  as  with  the  drifted  wings  of  many  companies  of 
angels ;  and  then,  when  you  can  look  no  more  for  gladness,  and  when 
you  arc  bowed  down  with  ftsir  and  love  of  the  Maker  and  Doer  of 
this,  tell  me  who  has  best  delivered  this  his  message  unto  men  ! 


Nature  has  a  thousand  ways  and  means  of  rising  above  herself, 
but  incomparably  the  noblest  manifestations  of  her  aipability  of  color 
are  in  the  sunsets  among  the  high  clouds.  I  speak  especially  of  tlir 
moment  before  the  sun  sinks,  when  his  light  turns  pure  rose-color, 
and  when  this  light  falls  upon  a  zenith  covered  with  countless  cloud- 
forms  of  inconceivable  delicacy,  threads  and  flakes  of  vapor,  whicli 
would  in  common  daylight  be  pure  snow-white,  and  which  give  there- 
fore fair  field  to  the  tone  of  light.  There  is  then  no  limit  to  the  mul- 
titude, and  no  check  to  the  intensity  of  the  hues  assumed.  The 
whole  sky  from  the  zenith  to  the  horizon  becomes  one  molten,  man- 
tling sea  of  color  and  fire ;  every  black  bar  turns  into  massy  gold, 
every  ripple  and  wave  into  unsullied,  shadowless  crimson,  and  purple, 
and  scarlet,  and  colors  for  which  there  are  no  words  in  language  and 
no  ideas  in  the  mind,  —  things  which  can  only  be  conceived  Avhile 
they  are  visible,  —  the  intense  hollow  blue  of  the  upper  sky  melting 
through  it  all,  —  showing  here  deep  and  pure  and  lightlcss,  there 
modulated  by  the  filmy,  formless  body  of  the  transparent  vapor,  till  it 
is  lost  imperceptibly  in  its  crimson  and  gold. 


IX)WELL.  336 

LOWELL. 

1819- 

Jamrs  Rcmkll  Lowkli.,  poet,  critic,  and  easayist,  was  born  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  in 
IH10.  Having:  grailuated  at  Harvard  College,  he  studied  law,  but,  after  a  brief  experience  of  the 
prufcssion,  be  abandoned  the  courts  for  the  mo^  congenial  walks  of  literature.  His  first  volume 
of  poetry,  A  I'ear's  Life,  was  published  in  \Si\.  In  1841  appeared  a  second  collection  of  his 
poems,  and  in  ll^i8  a  third.  Tliis  latter  year  is  a  memorable  one  in  his  literary  career,  having 
witiicsst-d  till-  publication  of  some  of  his  most  famous  comiMsitions.  Among  these  are  The  Vition 
«/■  Sir  I.'ii,  >'',il,  A  Fable  for  Critica,  and  The  Bifflow  Papers,  besides  a  fresh  collection  of  his 
~  In  1855  Mr.  Lowell  succeeded  to  the  cliair  of  Belles-Lettres  in  Harvard  College, 

:  ,  occupied  by  Mr.  Longfellow.     Since  his  accession  to  this  post  he  has  undertaken 

no  inii)<irtni\t  literary  enterprises.  He  has,  however,  contributed  to  the  magazines,  and  written 
occasional  poems  le.  g.  the  Commemoration  Ode)  which  exhibit  his  powers  at  their  best.  The 
only  volumes  bearing  his  name  issued  within  the  last  ten  years  are  two  collections  of  essays,  — 
My  Study  Windows  and  Among  my  Books.  Professor  Lowell  is,  perhaps,  the  most  scholarly  of 
.\nierican  writers;  yet  he  is  far  from  sacrificing  vigor  to  finish,  and  his  compositions  illustrate 
tlif  liiu'best  ,\merican  attainment  in  culture  and  style.  His  Fnble  for  Critics  marked  a  new 
(liiinrtiirc  in  .\nieriran  letters,  and  exhibited  him  as  a  successful  pioneer  in  a  department  of 
|)<><'tiral  effort  which  had  been  almost  untried  in  this  country.  Its  execution  would  do  credit  to 
tlu'  |xH-t  in  his  maturity  ;  but  its  spirit  smacked  of  acerbity  and  arrogance,  and  strikingly  exem- 
pliiii-d  one  of  his  characteristics,  —  an  almost  finical  fastidiousness,  which  has  always  prevented 
him  from  becoming  a  popular  w  riter.  The  Bifflow  Papers  are  a  unique  product  of  American  humor, 
and,  though  written  with  reference  to  a  temporary  condition  of  public  sentiment,  will  always  be 
ailtnin-d  for  their  graphic  and  faithful  representations  of  Yankee  character,  and  for  the  mingled 
wit  -iiicl  wisdom  with  which  they  abound.  As  an  essayist,  Mr.  Lowell  is  at  his  best  in  dealing 
with  liierary  topics:  his  essays  on  certain  old  English  writers  are  hardly  surpassed  in  EngUsh 
literature.  He  has  been  a  loving  student  of  nature  as  well  as  of  books,  and  his  css^  on  My 
Garden  Aequaintanee  is  as  admirable  as  anything  he  Iws  written.  In  1872  Mr.  Lowell  went  to 
Europe,  where  he  remained  two  years. 

mr  OABDEN  ACQUAINTANCE. 

Dr.  W.\tts's  statement  that  "  birds  in  their  little  nests  agree, "- 
like  too  many  others  intended  to  form  the  infant  mind,  is  very  far 
from  being  true.  On  the  contrary',  the  most  peaceful  relation  of  the 
different  species  to  each  other  is  that  of  armed  neutrality.  They  are 
very  jealous  of  neighbors.  A  few  years  ago,  I  was  much  interested 
in  the  housebuilding  of  a  pair  of  summer  yellow-birds.  They  had 
chosen  a  very  pretty  site  near  the  top  of  a  tall  white  lilac,  within  easy 
eyeshot  of  a  chamber  wintlow.  A  very  pleasant  thing  it  was  to  see 
their  little  home  growing  with  mutual  help,  to  watch  their  industrious 
skill  interrupted  only  by  litth'  flirts  and  snatches  of  endearment, 
Irugally  cut  short  by  the  common-sense  of  the  tiny  housewife.  They 
l»ad  brought  tiu'ir  work  nearly  to  an  end,  and  had  already  l)egun  to 
line  it  with  fern-down,  the  gathering  of  which  demanded  more  distant 


336  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

journeys  and  longer  absences.     But,  alas !  the  syringa,  immemorial 

manor  of  the  catbirds,  was  not  more  than  twenty  feet  away,  and  these 

"  gi(hly  neighbors"  had,  as  it  appeared,  been  all  along  jealously  wateh- 

ful,  though  silent,  witnesses  of  what  they  Aeemed  an  intrusion  of 

squatters.     No  sooner  were  the  pretty  mates  fairly  gone  for  a  new 

load  of  lining,  than 

"  To  their  aagnarded  nest  these  weasel  Soots 
Came  stealing." 

Silently  they  flew  back  and  forth,  each  giving  a  vengeful  dab  at  tin 
nest  in  passing.  They  did  not  fall-to  and  deliberately  destroy  it,  for 
they  might  have  been  caught  at  their  mischief.  As  it  was,  whenever 
the  yellow-birds  came  back,  their  enemies  were  hidden  in  their  oun 
sight-proof  bush.  Several  times  their  unconscious  victims  repaired 
damages,  but  at  length,  after  counsel  taken  together,  they  gave  it  up. 
Perhaps,  like  other  unlettered  folk,  they  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  Devil  wa<:  in  it,  and  yielded  to  the  invisible  persecutions  of  witch- 
craft. 

The  robins,  by  constant  attacks  and  annoyances,  have  succeeded  in 
driving  off  the  blue-jays  who  used  to  build  in  our  pines,  their  gay 
colors  and  quaint  noisy  ways  making  them  welcome  and  amusing 
neighbors.  I  once  had  the  chance  of  doing  a  kindness  to  a  house- 
hold of  them,  which  they  received  with  very  friendly  condescension. 
I  had  had  my  eye  for  some  time  upon  a  nest,  and  was  puzzled  by  a 
constant  fluttering  of  what  seemed  full-grown  wings  in  it  whenever  1 
drew  nigh.  At  last  I  climbed  the  tree,  in  spite  of  angry  protests  from 
the  old  birds  against  my  intrusion.  The  mystery  had  a  very  simple 
solution.  In  building  the  nest,  a  long  piece  of  packthread  had  been 
somewhat  loosely  woven  in.  Three  of  the  young  had  contrived  to 
entangle  themselves  in  it,  and  had  become  full-grown  without  being 
able  to  launch  themselves  upon  the  air.  One  was  unharmed  ;  another 
had  so  tightly  twisted  the  cord  about  its  shank  that  one  foot  was 
curled  up  and  seemed  paralyzed ;  the  third,  in  its  stniggles  to  escape, 
had  sawn  through  the  flesh  of  the  thigh  and  so  much  harmed  itself 
that  I  thought  it  humane  to  put  an  end  to  its  miser\'.  When  I  took 
out  my  knife  to  cut  their  hempen  bonds,  the  heads  of  the  family 
seemed  to  divine  my  friendly  intent.  Suddenly  ceasing  their  cries 
and  threats,  they  perched  quietly  within  reach  of  my  hand,  and 
watched  me  in  my  work  of  manumission.  This,  owing  to  the  flutter- 
ing terror  of  the  prisoners,  was  an  aff"air  of  some  delicacy  ;  but  erelong 


I 


LOWELL.  887 

I  was  rewarded  by  seeing  one  of  them  fly  away  to  a  neij^hboring  tree, 
while  the  cripple,  making  a  parachute  of  his  wings,  came  lightly  to 
the  ground,  and  hopp<?d  off  as  well  as  he  could  with  one  leg,  obsequi- 
ously waited  on  by  his  elders.  A  week  later  I  had  the  satisfaction 
of  meeting  him  in  the  pine-walk,  in  good  spirits,  and  already  so  far 
recovered  as  to  be  able  to  balance  himself  with  the  lame  foot.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  in  his  old  age  h^accounted  for  his  lameness  by  some 
handsome  story  of  a  wound  receive<l  at  the  famous  Battle  of  the  Pines, 
when  our  tribe,  overcome  by  numbers,  was  driven  from  its  ancient 
camping-ground.  Of  late  years  the  jays  have  visited  us  only  at  inter- 
vals ;  and  in  winter  their  bright  plumage,  set  ofl:'  by  the  snow,  and 
their  cheerful  cry,  are  especially  welcome.  They  would  have  furnished 
iEsop  with  a  fable,  for  the  feathered  crest  in  which  they  seem  to  take 
so  much  satisfaction  is  often  their  fatal  snare.  Country  boys  make  a 
hole  with  their  finger  in  the  snow-crust  just  large  enough  to  admit 
the  jay's  head,  and,  hollowing  it  out  somewhat  beneath,  bait  it  with  a 
few  kernels  of  com.  The  crest  slips  easily  into  the  trap,  but  refuses 
to  be  pulled  out  again,  and  he  who  came  to  feast  remains  a  prey. 

Twice  have  the  crow-blackbirds  attempted  a  settlement  in  my  pines, 
and  twice  have  the  robins,  who  claim  a  right  of  pre-emption,  so  suc- 
cessfully played  the  part  of  border-ruffians  as  to  drive  them  away,  — 
to  my  great  regret,  for  they  are  the  best  substitute  we  have  for  rooks. 
At  Shady  Hill  (now,  alas !  empty  of  its  so  long  loved  household)  they 
build  by  hundreds,  and  nothing  can  be  more  cheery  than  their  creak- 
ing clatter  (like  a  convention  of  old-fashioned  tavern-signs)  as  they 
gather  at  evening  to  debate  in  mass  meeting  their  windy  politics,  or 
to  gossip  at  their  tent-doors  over  the  events  of  the  day.  Their  port 
is  grave,  and  their  stalk  across  the  turf  as  martial  as  that  of  a  second- 
rate  ghost  in  Hamlet.  They  never  meddled  with  my  corn,  so  far  as  I 
could  discover. 

For  a  few  years  I  had  crows,  but  their  nests  are  an  irresistible  bait 
for  boys,  and  their  settlement  was  broken  up.  They  grew  so  wonted 
as  to  throw  otf  a  great  part  of  their  shyness,  and  to  tolerate  my  near 
npproach.  One  very  hot  day  I  stood  for  some  time  within  twenty 
feet  of  a  mother  and  three  childrcji,  who  sat  on  an  elm  bough  over  my 
head,  gasping  in  the  sultiy  air,  and  holding  their  wings  half  spread 
for  coolness.  All  birds  during  the  pairing  season  become  more  or 
less  sentimental,  and  murmur  soft  nothings  in  a  tone  very  unlike  the 
grinding-organ  repetition  and  loudness  of  their  habitual  song.  The 
15  V 


338 

crow  is  very  comical  as  a  lover,  and  to  hear  him  trjing  to  soften  his 
croak  to  the  proper  Saint  Preux  standard  has  something  the  effect  of 
a  Mississippi  boatman  quoting  Tennyson.*  Yet  there  are  few  things 
to  my  ear  more  melodious  than  his  caw  of  a  clear  winter  morning  as 
it  drops  to  you  filt<.*red  through  tive  hundred  fathoms  of  crisp  blue  air. 
The  hostility  of  all  smaller  birds  makes  the  moral  character  of  tin 
crow,  for  all  his  deaconlike  demeanor  and  garb,  somewhat  question- 
able. He  could  never  sally  forth  without  insult.  The  golden  robins, 
especially,  would  chase  him  as  far  as  I  could  follow  with  my  ( \ 
making  him  duck  clumsily  to  avoid  their  importunate  bills.  I  do  uov 
believe,  however,  that  he  robbed  any  nests  hereabouts,  for  the  refuse 
of  the  gas-works,  which,  in  our  free-and-easy  community,  is  allowed  to 
poison  the  river,  supplied  him  with  dead  alewives  in  abundance.  I 
used  to  watch  him  making  his  periodical  visits  to  the  salt-marshes 
and  coming  back  with  a  fish  in  his  beak  to  his  young  savages,  who, 
no  doubt,  like  it  in  that  condition  which  makes  it  savory  to  the 
Kanakas  and  other  corvine  races  of  men. 


YTJS80TTP. 

A  STRANGER  camc  one  night  to  Yussouf*s  tent, 

Saying,  "  Behold  one  outcast  and  in  dread, 

Against  whose  life  the  bow  of  power  is  bent. 

Who  flies,  and  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head ; 

I  come  to  thee  for  shelter  and  for  food, 

To  Yussouf,  called  through  all  our  tribes  'The  Good.' 

"  This  tent  is  mine,"  said  Yussouf,  "  but  no  more 

Than  it  is  God*s  ;  come  in,  and  be  at  peace ; 

Freely  shalt  thou  partake  of  all  my  store 

As  I  of  His  who  buildeth  over  these 

Our  tents  his  glorious  roof  of  night  and  day, 

And  at  whose  door  none  ever  yet  heard  Nay." 

So  Yussouf  entertained  his  guest  that  night, 
And,  waking  him  ere  day,  said  :  "  Here  is  gold, 
My  swiftest  horse  is  saddled  for  thy  flight, 
Depart  before  the  prying  day  grow  bold." 
As  one  lamp  lights  another,  nor  gi'ows  less. 
So  nobleness  enkindleth  nobleness. 


LOWELL.  330 

That  inward  light  the  stranger's  face  made  grand, 
Which  shines  from  all  self-conquest ;  kneeling  low, 
He  bowed  his  forehead  upon  Yussouf's  hand. 
Sobbing :  **  O  Sheik,  1  cannot  leave  thee  so ; 
I  will  repay  thee ;  all  this  thou  hast  done 
Unto  that  Ibrahim  who  slew  thy  son !  " 

"Take  thrice  the  gold,"  said  Yussouf,  "for  with  thee 

Into  the  desert,  never  to  return, 

My  one  black  thought  shall  ride  away  from  me ; 

First-born,  for  whom  by  day  and  night  I  yearn, 

Balanced  and  just  are  all  of  God's  decrees ; 

Thou  art  avenged,  my  first-born,  sleep  in  peace !  ** 


THE    CHANGELING. 

I  HAD  a  little  daughter. 

And  she  was  given  to  me 
To  lead  me  gently  backward 

To  the  Heavenly  Father's  knee. 
That  I,  by  the  force  of  nature. 

Might  in  some  dim  wise  divine 
The  depth  of  his  infinite  patience 

To  this  wayward  soul  of  mine. 

I  know  not  how  others  saw  her. 

But  to  me  she  was  wholly  fair, 
And  the  light  of  the  heaven  she  came  from 

Still  lingered  and  gleamed  in  her  hair ; 
For  it  was  as  wavy  and  golden. 

And  as  many  changes  took. 
As  the  shadows  of  sun-gilt  ripples 

On  the  yellow  bed  of  a  brook. 

To  what  can  I  liken  her  smiling 

Upon  me,  her  kneeling  lover. 
How  it  leaped  from  her  lips  to  her  eyelid-*. 

And  dimpled  her  wholly  over. 


lilU  CATUCAEt's    i.iti;t;\i;y    i;i;\i)i:rw. 

Till  licr  outstretclicd  liaiuU  smilrd  .ilso, 
And  I  almost  st  t med  to  bee 

The  vtrv  lieart  of  her  mother 

Sondin*^  sun  throuLrh  Ikt  veins  to  me  ! 

She  had  been  with  us  scarce  a  twdveraontli, 

And  it  hardly  seemed  a  day. 
When  a  troop  of  wanderinj?  angels 

Stole  my  little  daughter  away  ; 
Or  perhaps  those  heavenly  Zingari 

But  loosed  the  hampering  strings, 
And  when  they  had  opened  her  cage-door, 

My  little  bird  used  her  wings. 

But  tin  y  l-tt  ;.,  Iht  stead  a  changeling, 

A  lln  hild. 

That  seeiub  lik.   !i<  r  bud  in  full  blossom. 

And  smili  s  :i>  -he  never  smiled  : 
\\  lien  1  wake  in  tlic  nl(lrllillL^  1  .s<'<'  it 

WJuTc  she  always  usexl  to  lie. 
And  I  f(«l  as  weak  as  a  violet 

Alone  'ncatli  llic  aulul  -ky  ; 

As  weak,  yet  as  trn>tt'nl  also  ; 

For  thr  wholo  year  long  I  see 
All  the  wondtis  of  faithful  Nature 

Still  worked  for  the  love  of  me ; 
Winds  wander,  and  dews  drip  earthward, 

Eain  falls,  suns  rise  and  set. 
Earth  whirls,  and  all  but  to  prosper 

A  poor  little  violet. 

This  child  is  not  mine  as  the  first  was, 

I  cannot  sinn-  it  to  rest, 
I  cannot  lift  it  up  fatherly 

And  bliss  it  upon  my  breast ; 
Yet  it  lii's  ill  my  little  one's  cradle 

And  sits  in  my  little  one's  chair, 
And  the  lifrlit  of  the  heaven  she  's  gone  to 

Transfigures  its  golden  hair. 


ft 


LOWELL.  341 

ON  A  CEKTAIK  CONDESCENSION  IN  FOREIGNERS. 

Perhaps  one  reason  wliy  the  uveraj^e  Briton  spreads  himself  here 
with  such  an  e:isy  air  of  superiority  may  be  owing  to  the  fact  tliat  he 
meets  witli  so  many  bad  imitations  as  to  conclude  himself  the  only 
real  thing  in  a  wilderness  of  shams.  He  fancies  himself  moving 
through  an  endless  Bloom sbury,  where  his  mere  apparition  confers 
honor  as  an  avatar  of  the  court-end  of  the  universe.  Not  a  Bull  of 
them  all  but  is  persuaded  he  bears  Europa  upon  his  back.  This 
is  the  sort  of  fellow  whose  patronage  is  so  divertingly  insuffirable. 
Thank  Heaven  he  is  not  the  only  specimen  of  cater-cousinship  from 
the  dear  old  Mother  Island  that  is  shown  to  us !  Among  genuine 
things,  I  know  nothing  more  genuine  than  the  better  men  whose 
limbs  were  made  in  England.  So  manly-tender,  so  brave,  so  true,  so 
warranted  to  wear,  they  make  us  proud  to  feel  that  blood  is  thicker 
than  water. 

But  it  is  not  merely  the  Englishman ;  every  European  candidly  ad- 
mits in  himself  some  right  of  primogeniture  in  respect  to  us,  ^nd  pats 
this  shaggy  continent  on  the  back  with  a  lively  sense  of  generous 
unbending.  The  German  who  plays  the  bass-viol  has  a  well-founded 
contempt,  which  he  is  not  always  nice  in  concealing,  for  a  country  so 
few  of  whose  children  ever  take  that  noble  instrument  between  their 
knees. 

So  long  as  we  continue  to  be  the  most  common-schooled  and  the  least 
cidtivated  people  in  the  world,  I  suppose  we  must  consent  to  endure 
this  condescending  manner  of  foreigners  toward  us.  The  more  friendly 
tliey  mean  to  be,  the  more  ludicrously  prominent  it  Ixx-omes.  They 
can  never  appreciate  the  immense  amount  of  silent  work  that  has  been 
done  here  making  this  continent  slowly  fit  for  the  abode  of  man,  and 
which  will  demonstrate  itself,  let  us  hope,  in  the  character  of  the  peo- 
ple. Outsiders  can  only  l)e  expected  to  judge  a  nation  by  the  amount 
it  has  contributed  to  the  civilization  of  the  world  ;  the  amount,  that  is, 
that  can  be  seen  and  handled.  A  great  place  in  history  can  only  be 
achiived  by  competitive  examinations,  nay,  by  a  long  course  of  them. 
How  much  new  thought  have  we  contributed  to  the  common  stock? 
rill  that  question  can  be  triumphantly  answeued,  or  needs  no  answer, 
we  nmst  continue  to  1h?  simply  interesting  as  an  experiment,  to  be 
studied  as  a  problem,  and  not  respected  as  an  attained  result  or  an 
accomplished  solution.     Perhaps,  as  I  have  hinted,  their  patronizing 


^4f'Z  CATHCART's    LITEILAEY    READER. 

manner  toward  us  is  the  fair  result  of  their  failing  to  see  here  any 
thing  more  than  a  poor  imitation,  a  plaster-cast  of  Europe.  And  are 
they  not  partly  right  ?  If  the  tone  of  the  uncultivated  American  has 
too  often  the  arrogance  of  the  barbarian,  is  not  that  of  the  culti- 
vated as  often  vulgarly  apologetic  ?  In  the  American  they  meet  with 
is  there  the  simplicity,  the  manliness,  the  absence  of  sliam,  the  sin- 
cere human  nature,  the  sensitiveness  to  duty  and  implied  obligation, 
that  in  any  way  distinguishes  us  from  wliat  our  orators  call  "  the 
effete  civilization  of  the  Old  World  "  ?  Is  there  a  politician  among  us 
daring  enough  to  risk  his  future  on  the  chance  of  our  keeping  our  word 
with  the  exactness  of  superstitious  communities  like  England?  U 
it  certain  tliat  we  shall  be  ashamed  of  a  bankruptcy  of  honor,  if  we 
can  only  keep  the  letter  of  our  bond  ?  I  hope  we  shall  be  able  to 
answer  all  these  questions  with  a  frank  yes.  At  any  rate,  we  would 
advise  our  visitors  that  we  are  not  merely  curious  creatures,  but  be- 
long to  the  family  of  man,  and  that,  as  individiuds,  we  are  not  to 
be  always  subjected  to  the  competitive  examination  above  mentioned, 
even  if  we  acknowledged  their  competence  as  an  examining  board. 
Above  all,  we  beg  them  to  remember  that  America  is  not  to  us,  as  to 
them,  a  mere  object  of  external  interest  to  l)e  discussed  and  analyzed, 
but  in  us,  part  of  our  very  marrow.  Let  them  not  suppose  that  we 
conceive  of  ourselves  as  exiles  from  the  graces  and  amenities  of  an 
older  date  than  we,  though  very  much  at  home  in  a  state  of  things 
not  yet  all  it  might  be  or  should  be,  but  which  we  mean  to  make  so, 
and  which  we  find  both  wholesome  and  pleasant  for  men  to  live  in. 
**  The  full  tide  of  human  existence  "  may  be  felt  here  as  keenly  as 
Johnson  felt  it  at  Charing  Cross,  and  in  a  larger  sense.  I  know  one 
person  who  is  singidar  enough  to  think  Cambridge  the  very  best  spot 
on  the  habitable  globe.*  "  Doubtless  God  could  have  made  a  better. 
but  doubtless  he  never  did." 

It  will  take  England  a  great  while  to  get  over  her  airs  of  patronage 
toward  us,  or  even  passably  to  conceal  them.  She  cannot  help  con- 
founding the  people  with  the  country,  and  regarding  us  as  lustv 
juveniles.  She  has  a  conviction  that  whatever  good  there  is  in  us  is 
wholly  English,  when  the  truth  is  that  we  are  worth  nothing  except 
so  far  as  we  have  disinfected  ourselves  of  Anglicism.  She  is  especially 
condescending  just  now,  and  lavishes  sugar-plums  on  us  as  if  we 

*  Mr.  Lowell  resides  at  Cambridge. 


LOWELL.  343 

lia<l  not  outgrown  them.  I  am  no  believer  in  sudden  conversions, 
especially  in  sudden  conversions  to  a  favorable  opinion  of  people  who 
have  just  proved  you  to  be  mistaken  in  judj^ment  and  therefore  un- 
wise in  policy.  I  never  blamed  her  for  not  wishinp^  well  to  democ- 
racy, —  how  should  she  ?  The  only  sure  way  of  brinu^injr  about  a 
healthy  relation  between  the  two  countries  is  for  Englishmen  to  clear 
their  minds  of  the  notion  that  we  are  always  to  be  treated  as  a  kind 
of  inferior  and  deported  Englishman  whose  nature  they  perfectly  un- 
derstand, and  whose  back  they  accordingly  stroke  the  wrong  way  of 
the  fur  with  amazing  perseverance.  Let  them  learn  to  treat  us  natu- 
rally on  our  merits  as  human  beings,  as  they  would  a  German  or  a 
Frenchman,  and  not  as  if  we  were  a  kind  of  counterfeit  Briton  whose 
crime  appeared  in  every  shade  of  difference,  and  before  long  there 
would  come  that  right  feeling  which  we  natundly  call  a  good  under- 
standing. Tlie  common  blood,  and  still  more  the  common  language, 
are  fatal  instruments  of  misapprehension.  Let  them  give  up  trying 
to  understand  us,  still  more  thinking  that  they  do,  and  acting  in  vari- 
ous absunl  ways  as  the  necessary  consequence ;  for  they  will  never 
arrive  at  that  devoutly -to-be- wished  consummation,  till  they  learn  to 
look  at  us  as  we  are  and  not  as  they  suppose  us  to  be.  Dear  old 
long-estranged  mother-in-law,  it  is  a  great  many  years  since  we 
parted.  Since  1660,  when  you  married  again,  you  have  l3een  a  step- 
mother to  us.  Put  on  your  spectacles,  dear  madam.  Yes,  we  have 
grown,  and  changed  likewise.  You  would  not  let  us  darken  your 
doors,  if  you  could  help  it.  We  know  that  perfectly  well.  But  pray, 
when  we  look  to  be  treated  as  men,  don't  shake  that  rattle  in  our 
faces,  nor  talk  baby  to  tis  any  longer. 

"  Do,  child,  go  to  it  g:ran(lam,  child  ; 
Give  ^randam  kingdom,  and  it  grandam  will 
Give  it  a  plum,  a  cherry,  and  a  fig." 


344  CATHCART^S    LITERARY    READER. 

MRS.    LE  VERT. 

1820- 

Mbs.  Octatia  WALTOif  Li  Vbkt,  a  distinguished  Southern  writer,  was  bom  near  Augusta, 
Georfia.  in  1890.  Sh«  was  the  daughter  of  Colonel  George  Walton.  While  a  mere  girl  she 
srlrcted  a  name  for  the  capital  of  Fkihda,  — of  which  State  her  father  was  at  that  timegoremor, 
—  Tallahassee,  an  Indian  word  meaning  "beautiful  huid."  In  18:^  she  became  the  wife  of  Dr. 
Henry  S.  Le  Vert  of  Mobile.  Alabama.  She  has  traveled  much,  both  in  America  aud  Europe. 
The  obserratwns  made  during  two  tours  in  Europe  are  given  in  her  Sourenin  0/  Travel,  a  duo- 
decimo of  two  Yolumes.  published  in  1858.  She  has  contributed  occasionally  to  curnnt  litera- 
tare;  and  since  the  war  has  given  readings  from  her  writings.  Of  Mrs.  Le  Vert's  tours  in 
Europe  N.  P.  Willis  says :  "  Tliere  probably  was  never  a  more  signal  success  in  the  way  of 
access  to  foreign  society,  friendly  attentions  from  the  nobility,  and  notice  from  royalty,  tluin  fell 
to  the  share  of  Madame  Le  Vert."  Her  style  is  spontaneous,  often  conversational,  but  always 
graceful,  natural,  and  easy,  and  never  dull.  The  best  portions  arc  The  Eru/jtion  </  resuvius.  The 
Cofiteum^  The  H'ay  orer  the  SimpUm,  Tkt  Browuimpt  in  Florenet,  Mwmlight  in  Ventce,  A  Visit  to 
the  Fope,  and  Tlu  Parrwell  to  Ilmlf.  Id  18C9  a  aimilar  WOrit,  SntMittrt  0/  Jhttingmshed  People, 
by  Mra.  Le  Vert,  was  announced  as  in  press ;  but  it  has  never  appeared,  owing,  the  public  were 
advised«  to  drcomstanees  of  a  personal  nature. 

THE  STUDY  OF  LAHOUAOE. 

"  Greek  's  a  harp  we  lore  to  hear : 
Latin  is  a  trumpet  clear ; 
Spanish  like  an  drgan  swells ; 
Italian  rings  its  silver  bells ; 
France,  with  many  a  frolic  mian. 
Tunes  her  sprightly  violin ; 
Ixiud  the  German  rolls  his  drum 
When  Russia's  clashing  cymbals  come ; 
But  Briton's  sons  may  well  rejoice. 
For  English  is  the  human  voice." 

There  is  not  a  more  useful  or  delightful  occupation  for  the  leisure 
hours  of  young  ladies  than  the  study  of  foreign  languages.  It  is  the 
bridge  spanning  the  deep  waters  which  divide  our  own  from  the  rich 
and  varied  literature  of  other  lands.  When  once  we  have  passed  over 
it,  a  new  world  of  enjoyment  is  open  to  us,  and  we  are  quickly 
brought  en  rapport  with  the  brilliant  intellects  that  have  illustrated 
the  grand  and  glorious  in  prose  and  poetry. 

The  best  translation  is  but  a  shadow  of  the  original.  We  may 
transplant  a  tropical  flower  to  our  climate,  and  cherish  it  with  infinite 
care ;  still  its  blossoms  will  never  possess  the  beauty  and  fragrance  of 
its  own  sunny  clime.  Thus  it  is  with  foreign  literature.  To  enjoy 
perfectly  the  noble  utterances  of  great  minds,  we  must  read  them  in 
the  language  with  which  Genius  first  draped  them.    The  subtile  charm 


MRS.    LE    VERT.  S45 

of  originality,  —  the  delicate  shades  of  thought,  radiant  and  evanes- 
cent as  the  hues  of  the  rainbow,  —  vanish  away  before  the  realities  of 
a  translution. 

A  few  hours,  or  even  one  hour,  each  day,  snatched  from  the  exi- 
•roncies  of  society,  and  devoted  to  the  study  of  any  one  of  the  lan- 
jfuaj^es  of  Europe,  would  prove  a  prolitable  investment  of  time,  and 
yield  a  sure  reward.  Madame  Cumpan  did  not  consider  the  educa- 
tion of  a  young  girl  completed  because  she  had  left  school.  In  one 
of  her  admirable  letters  of  advice  to  a  friend,  she  writes  :  "  Continue 
still  to  devote  daily  some  hours  to  study,  that  you  may  speak  fluently 
in  German,  sing  sweetly  in  Italian,  and  write  charmingly  in  French." 

Although  the  fashionable  world  may  be  very  exacting  and  absorb 
much  of  the  attention  of  our  young  ladies,  still,  even  in  its  whirl  of 
gayety  there  are  many  weary  and  listless  hours,  which  might  be  pleas- 
antly occupied  in  learning  a  foreign  language.  The  Persian  poet  ex- 
claims, "  Count  every  hour  enjoyed  as  a  treasure  gained."  May  we 
not  paraphrase  tliis  by  saying,  "  Count  ever}'  hour  well  employed  as 
a  treasure  gained  ?  "  One  of  those  weary  hours  given  each  day  to 
Grerman  would  soon  aflford  you  the  satisfaction  of  rvjading  the  grandly 
eloquent  works  of  Goethe,  of  Schiller,  of  Jean  Paul  Richtcr,  of 
Heine,  and  of  other  authors,  to  which  no  translation  can  ever  render 
justice. 

Many  young  ladies  study  Latin  at  school ;  hence  the  acquisition  of 
any  of  the  languages  of  Southern  Europe  would  be  vastly  facilitated. 
It  is  a  fascinating  occupation  to  follow  all  these  different  streams 
which  flow  from  the  great  fountain  of  the  Latin. 

First,  the  Spanish,  —  resembling  it  closely,  with  many  of  its  noble 
chariicteristies,  while  it  is  enriched  with  the  sonorous  grandeur  of  the 
Moorish,  —  vehement,  expressive,  and  forcible,  —  pecidiarly  powerful 
and  majestic  in  oratory  and  declamation. 

Next,  the  Italian,  —  soft  and  graceful,  the  type  of  its  own  rose- 
tinted  skit's  and  delicious  clime.  Music,  which  gives  laws  to  har- 
mony, has  chosen  that  idiom  as  the  most  exquisite  for  the  sweet 
breathings  of  its  melody ;  while  Poetry,  the  sister  spirit  of  Music, 
revels  in  the  full  and  swelling  l)eauty  of  its  tones. 

Then,  the  French,  —  bright  as  the  flight  of  a  shining  arrow,  —  em- 
phatic and  concise,  —  the  language  of  society  and  of  diplomacy. 
Through  all  changes  of  "  clime  and  time,"  we  will  trace  their  alle- 
giance to  the  Latin.  It  lingers  around  them  as  the  remembrance  of 
a  mother's  love  clincrs  to  the  human  heart. 


'Ho  CATHCAltrs    LlTKliAUY    EJiADEtt. 

Among  the  happy  visions  which  float  in  the  mind  of  nearly  every 
American  girl  is  that  of  a  visit  to  Europe ;  therefore,  to  her,  a  knowl- 
edge of  foreign  languages  would  be  especially  agreeable.  Many  per- 
sons travel  throuj^h  classic  lands  with  no  more  enjoyment  than  the 
deaf  and  dumb,  whose  only  pleasure  is  derived  from  siglit.  How 
charmingly  might  a  young  lady  utilize  her  accomplishments  as  a  lin- 
guist by  contributing  to  the  information,  the  happiness,  and  the  com- 
fort of  those  of  her  family  who  accompany  her,  and  who,  perhaps, 
have  been  too  much  occupied  with  the  hard  actualities  of  life  to  acquire 
these  languages ! 

It  is  always  a  joy  to  woman's  heart  to  know  she  increases  the  hap- 
piness of  the  lovetl  ones.  Thus  many  amusing  incidents  and  spark- 
ling conversations  are  constantly  occurring  as  we  travel  through  "  lands 
beyond  the  seas,**  which  might  be  translated  for  their  enjoyment  also. 
Pl<  sure  and  usefulness  are  combined  in  the  knowledjre  of  foreijrn 
1  milages.  It  is  an  admirable  training  for  the  memory,  and  genial 
exercise  for  the  mind ;  and  the  acquisition  of  every  new  language  is 
another  delight  added  to  existence. 


THE  ESCUBIAL. 

At  dawn  we  left  Madrid,  passing  through  the  deserted  Puerto  del 
Sol,  by  the  great  palace  of  the  queen,  and  on  to  the  avenue  called  La 
Florida.  The  trees  are  planted  near  the  Manzanares,  and  their  vigor- 
ous life  is  in  strong  contrast  with  the  sterility  around  them.  The 
plains  are  parched,  and  the  hills  gray,  and  entirely  without  verdure. 
At  intervals  we  saw  the  peasants  working  amid  the  rocks,  for  there 
did  not  seem  to  be  a  vestige  of  soil  upon  them.  The  snow-capped 
peaks  of  the  Guadarama  Mountains  soon  met  our  eyes,  gleaming 
brightly  in  the  morning  sunlight,  as  we  journeyed  pleasantly  along 
the  cam} no  real  —  the  royal  road  —  which  leads  from  the  capital  to 
the  Escurial,  a  distance  of  twenty-five  miles.  The  road  is  really  mag- 
nificent, with  a  parapet  rising  up  on  each  side,  and  grand  bridges 
spanning  deep  chasms,  where  far  below  trickle  slowly  on  diminutive 
streamlets  dignified  with  the  name  of  river. 

Many  leagues  away  we  caught  sight  of  the  Escurial,  rising  in 
gloomv  yet  majestic  grandeur  near  the  highest  point  of  the  mountain 
region  of  the  Guadarajna.  It  is  built  of  granite,  and  absolutely  seems 
a  part  and  portion  of  the  "everlasting  hills."     It  is  a  glorious  old 


I 


MRS.    LE    VEET.  847 

palace,  monastery,  and  mausoleum,  erected  in  1563  by  Philip  the 
Second,  son  of  the  famous  Charles  the  Fifth,  in  eoniplianee  with 
a  vow  made  to  St.  Lorenzo  —  so  says  tradition  —  during  the  battle 
of  St.  Quentin.  The  saint  granting  the  monarch's  prayer  for  vic- 
tory, this  colossal  and  sacretl  edifice  was  dedicated  to  his  honor,  and 
constructed  in  the  form  oi'  a  parilla^  —  gridiron,  —  as  St.  Lorenzo 
suffered  niartyrdom  by  lieing  broiled  upon  one.  Hence  it  presents  a 
most  singukr  appearance.  Four  enormous  towers  indicate  the  feet 
of  the  gridiron,  while  the  interior  is  divided  into  cloisters  like  its 
iMirs.  The  handle  contains  the  palace.  In  the  center  of  the  building 
is  the  immense  dome,  and  beneath  it  the  church.  We  drove  through 
a  poor  little  village  near  tlie  palace,  and  stopping  at  the  posac/a,  ob- 
tained a  guide,  and  went  immediately  to  the  Escurial.  Its  propor- 
tions are  gigantic,  and  it  seems  intended  for  eternity, — with  its 
arched  corridors,  its  spacious  porticos  and  wide  courts,  its  lofty 
u^alleries  and  noble  saloons.  There  are  eleven  thousand  windows,  in 
lioly  remembrance  of  the  "  Virgins  of  Cologne,  slain  by  the  Huns,'* 
uid  fourteen  thousand  doors.  Twenty-two  years  were  occupied  in 
its  construction,  and  it  cost  six  millions  of  crowns. 

We  spent  all  the  day  following  our  guide  Comelio  through  the 
windings  of  the  building,  almost  as  intricate  as  those  of  the  Cretan 
labyrinth.  Comelio  was  entirely  blind,  and  had  been  so  for  forty- 
eight  years.  Still,  in  his  "  mind's  eye,"  he  sees  all  the  glories  of  the 
I'scurial.  It  was  so  strange  to  hear  the  sightless  old  man  exckim, 
'  Now,  Senora,  remark  the  effect  of  the  sunlight  upon  that  picture  I  '* 
And  then  he  would  stop  as  though  looking  upon  it,  and  point  out  all 
its  beauty.  "  See  the  deep  shadows  cast  by  those  columns ;  they 
have  the  form  of  frking  upon  his  throne,"  again  would  he  say,  as  we 
passed  along  with  him  up  the  great  granite  stairways,  and  through 
vaulttnl  cloisters  to  the  royal  apartments,  where  Isabel  the  Second 
-jM-nds  her  .summers.  These  are  fitted  up  with  luxurious  elegance, 
but  not  by  far  so  excjuisite  as  that  portion  of  the  palace  embellished 
and  adorned  by  Charles  the  Thinl.  It  is  quite  unique  in  style.  The 
floors  and  walls  are  composed  of  a  mosaic  of  different  colored  wood, 
and  the  furniture  inlaid  with  ivory  and  pearl-shell,  and  glittering  with 
stones  and  gems. 

The  view  from  the  balcony  of  these  rooms  is  admirably  picturesque, 
looking  down  upon  the  lonja  —  terrace  —  phinte<i  with  box,  cut  into 
fanciful  shapes.     Beyond  this  terrace  are  the  lianging  gardens,  and 


k 


iii-H  CATHCART's    i.iihUAUY    lifcADER. 

the  little  lakes  and  fountains ;  then  gn^t  groves  of  elm  and  oak  trees, 
all  brought  from  England.  Inclosing  the  lovely  picture,  as  though 
ill  a  dark  frame,  were  the  gray  sumuiits  of  the  Guadarama  chain. 
Gazing  over  the  wide  expanse,  it  appeared  to  me  the  realization  of  the 
wild  dream  of  an  entlmsiast.  The  creation  of  such  a  paradise,  be- 
neath the  shadow  of  the  snow-topped  mountains,  upon  whose  highest 
peak  is  the  grand  Escurial,  is  justly  styled  by  the  Castilians  la  octava 
maracUla  del  mundo,  —  the  eighth  wonder  of  the  world.  Philip  the 
Second  was  a  man  of  most  indomitable  will  and  religious  zeal.  Thus, 
inspired  by  a  holy  purpose,  and  aided  by  the  gp-eat  magician  of  the 
earth,  mighty  gold,  he  accomplished  almost  a  miracle.  Possessing 
infinite  taste  in  the  fine  arts,  and  a  love  of  the  beautiful,  he  adorned 
the  vast  halls,  galleries,  and  libraries  with  the  works  of  distini^uished 
artists  and  authors. 

When  we  came  to  the  door  of  the  great  library,  blind  Comelio 
gave  mc  to  the  cliarge  of  an  agetl  monk,  who  became  the  cicerone  of 
our  wanderings  through  it.  There  are  thirty-five  thousand  volumes 
resting  upon  the  shelves,  and  multitudes  of  manuscripts  in  Arabic ; 
then  noble  portraits  of  Philip  the  Second,  in  his  early  youth  and  in 
his  manhood.  There  is  a  superb  picture  of  Charles  the  Fifth,  taken 
in  the  glorious  ilays  of  his  life,  Avhen  he  ruled  nearly  one  half  of 
Europe.  We  also  saw  the  portraits  of  Herrera,  architect  of  the  Escu- 
rial, and  of  Montano,  the  first  librarian.  The  ceiling,  which  is  ex- 
tremely lofty,  was  painted  by  Carducho,  and  is  now  as  fresh  and 
bright  as  when  painted,  some  three  hundred  years  ago. 

The  old  monk  was  learned,  kind,  and  courteous.  He  gave  us 
most  interesting  and  valuable  information  concerning  the  former  oc- 
cupants of  this  wonderful  pbce.  He  showed  us  the  small  room  in 
which  Philip  died,  in  1598,  at  the  age  of  seventy-two.  His  last  ill- 
ness was  of  frightful  duration,  and  he  commanded  his  people  to 
remove  him  to  a  spot  whence  his  eyes  could  look  constantly  upon  the 
great  altar  of  the  church.  We  also  saw  the  seat  where  he  was  wont 
to  place  himself  among  the  monks  in  the  coro,  and  listen  to  the  music 
swelling  out  from  the  giant  oi^an.  In  his  old  age  he  was  rigid  in 
the  observance  of  his  religious  duties,  easting  aside  all  the  regal 
splendor  of  the  monarch.  Just  in  the  rear  of  the  coro  is  the  statue 
of  Christ  upon  the  cross,  carved  by  Benvenuto  Cellini,  and  given 
to  Philip  by  the  King  of  Sardinia.  It  is  of  exquisite  workmanship, 
but  painful  to  look  upon.     So  precious  was  it  deemed,  that  it  was 


MRS.    LE    VERT.  349 

Drought  all  the  distance  from  Barcelona  on  the  shoulders  of  men,  for 
fear  the  shaking  of  a  airriage  might  injure  it. 

Although  many  of  the  paintings  have  been  removed  to  the  Muaeo 
of  Madrid,  multitudes  still  remain,  of  rare  excellence.  There  are 
many  of  llaphad,  of  Tintoretto,  of  Murillo,  of  Titian  and  Velasquez. 
The  monk  often  paused  before  pictures  by  Navarrette  el  Miido  —  Na- 
vajTctte  the  Dumb  —  and  commended  them  to  my  special  attention. 
They  all  portray  the  suiferings  of  our  Saviour,  and  were  indescrib- 
ably affecting.  This  Navarrette  was  a  poor  deaf-and-dumb  boy,  who 
was  permitted  to  wander  unheeded  through  the  long  cloisters  and 
amid  the  picture-galleries  of  the  Escurial.  At  last  his  genius  and  his 
talent  found  utterance  through  the  pencil  and  brush.  The  eloquence 
of  the  soul  seems  infused  into  them.  "  The  Temptation  of  Christ 
upon  the  Mount  '*  is  a  perfect  history  of  the  fierce  struggle  and 
trial  of  the  passions.  "  Christ  bound  to  the  Column  "  touched  me 
even  to  tears.  The  divine  face  of  our  Lord,  although  bitterness  and 
humiliation  are  expressed  in  it,  has  also  a  holy  calm  in  the  l)eautiful 
eyes  irresistibly  impressive.  There  were  other  paintings  of  Navar- 
rette the  Dumb  besides  tliese,  which  were  remarkable  for  the  coloring 
and  admirable  life-like  attitudes.  From  the  saints  and  martyrs  his 
subjects  were  all  taken. 

In  the  private  chapel  is  the  grand  painting  of  Titian,  representing 
San  Lorenzo  bound  to  the  gridiron,  and  the  fire  just  kindled  beneath 
it.  A  most  gloomy  and  sad  picture  it  is,  with  the  stem  and  fierce 
faces  clustering  around  to  gaze  upon  the  agonies  and  martyrdom  of 
the  saint. 

We  passed  through  a  long  subterranean  passage,  under  a  portion 
of  the  edifice,  and  came  out  just  near  our  inn. 


;  'I  CATUCAliT'S    LlTElLiRY    ll£AU£R. 

TYNDALL. 

1820- 

JoH^  i  VNDALL,  LL.  !».,  onc  of  the  most  dutin^'uisneu  scicniists  01  tnc  day,  u  a  native  of  Ire- 
IumU  where  he  wm  born  ebo«t  1890.  At  an  early  age  ke  devoted  himaelf  to  the  study  ut  pli)  s- 
ics,«iid  nan  •ducvcd  a  nrpuution  which  wamuitml  hm  MminiQUnrnt,  at  the  age  of  tliiri\  wr. , 
yean,  to  the  chair  of  Natural  Philusophy  in  the  I  nun  of  Loiidun.     Hi-  has  n^ 

aa  a  writer  and  lecturer  oa  •uhjrcts  of  natural  -  u  has  of  all  uirn  most  cxh;i 

diacoMed  the  important  theory  of  tlic  mutual  cunvcrubiia>  uf  ht-al  anil  niotiou.    He  is  a  \  igur*. 
and  fitfctDating  writer,  and  his  books  may  fairly  be  said  to  represent  the  (loetry  of  science.     11 
ba8t4aMnni  work  is  a  treatise  00  Html,  ComsiJered  at  a  Modt  of  M  ' 
EuretM  i»  the  Mft,  FngwunU  <if  Scnne4  for  Vtuciemtific  FeopU 

These  lectures  were  driiv.r.-.!  i.v  »!»••  author,  recently,  in  tlie  principn — . 

and  were  oordially  adi  r  rhetorical  beauty  and  their  instructiveness.     It  u  worth 

of  note  that  Profeuor  i  icave  evidence  of  his  great  powers  of  mind  in  the  capacity  < 

teacher.     His  experience  lu  ihu  capacity,  at  Queenswood  College,  though  brief,  seems  to  ha 
had  an  important  part  in  the  molding  of  his  intellectual  charaeter,  and  in  confirming  bis  pn<i 
lection  for  the  special  field  of  labor  in  which  he  has  toiled  with  a  loceeas  ao  signal.    Thougli 
beat  known  as  an  explorer  in  experimental  physics,  he  is  highly  esteemed  as  a  philosophic 
thinker,  and  his  opinions  on  tome  of  the  momentous  questions  in  science  as  oppoaed  to  theology, 
that  aie  mnr  dtttwhuil  th«  thtakiag  world,  oooimaiid  the  highflat  mpeet. 

AH  ADDRESS  TO  STUDENTS. 

The  doctrine  has  been  held  that  the  mind  of  the  chihl  is  like  a 
sheet  of  white  paper,  on  which  by  education  we  can  write  what  char- 
acters we  please.  This  doctrine  assuredly  needs  qualification  and 
correction.  In  physics,  when  an  external  force  is  applied  to  a  body 
with  a  view  of  affecting  its  inner  texture,  if  we  wish  to  predict  the 
result,  we  must  know  whether  the  external  force  conspires  with  or 
opposes  the  internal  forces  of  the  body  itself ;  and  in  bringin*?  tin 
influence  of  education  to  bear  upon  the  new-born  man  his  inner  pow- 
ers must  be  also  taken  into  account.  He  comes  to  us  as  a  bundle  of 
inherited  capacities  and  tendencies,  labeled  "  from  the  indefinite  past 
to  the  indefinite  future  " ;  and  he  makes  his  transit  from  the  one  to 
the  other  through  the  education  of  the  present  time.  The  object  of 
that  education  is,  or  ought  to  be,  to  provide  wise  exercise  for  his 
capacities,  wise  direction  for  his  tendencies,  and  through  this  exercise 
and  this  direction  to  furnish  his  mind  with  such  knowledge  as  may 
contribute  to  the  usefulness,  the  beauty,  and  the  nobleness  of  his 
life. 

How  is  this  discipline  to  be  secured,  this  knowledge  imparted? 
Two  rival  methods  now  solicit  attention,  —  the  one  organized  and 


TYNDALL.  351 

equipped,  the  labors  of  centuries  having  been  expended  in  bringirtg  it 
to  its  present  stiite  of  perfection ;  the  other,  more  or  less  chaotic,  but 
becoming  daily  less  so,  and  giving  signs  of  enormous  power,  both  as 
a  source  of  knowledge  and  as  a  means  of  discipline.  These  two 
methods  are  tlu;  classical  and  the  scientific  method.  1  wish  they  were 
not  rivals  ;  it  is  only  bigotry  and  short-sightedness  that  make  tliem  so  ; 
for  assuredly  it  is  possible  to  give  both  of  them  fair  play.  Though 
hanlly  authorized  to  express  any  opinion  whatever  upon  the  subject, 
I  nevertheless  hold  the  opinion  that  the  proper  study  of  a  language  is 
an  intellectual  discipline  of  the  highest  kind.  If  I  except  discussions 
on  the  conjparative  merits  of  Popery  and  Protestantism,  English  gram- 
nuir  was  the  most  important  discipline  of  my  boyhood.  The  piercing 
through  the  involved  and  inverted  sentences  of  Paradise  Lost;  the 
linking  of  the  verb  to  its  often  distant  nominative,  of  the  relative  to 
its  distant  antecedent,  of  the  agent  to  the  object  of  the  transitive  verb, 
of  the  preposition  to  the  noun  or  pronoun  which  it  governed ;  the 
study  of  variations  in  mood  and  tense,  the  transformations  often  neces- 
sary- to  bring  out  the  true  grammatical  structure  of  a  senttuice,  —  all 
this  was  to  my  young  mind  a  discipline  of  the  highest  value,  and, 
indeed,  a  source  of  unflagging  delight.  How  I  rejoiced  when  I  found 
a  great  author  tripping,  and  was  fairly  able  to  pin  him  to  a  corner 
from  which  there  was  no  escape  !  As  I  speak,  some  of  the  sentences 
which  exercised  me  when  a  boy  rise  to  my  recollection.  "  He  that 
hath  cars  to  hear  let  him  hear."  That  was  one  of  them,  where  the 
"  He  "  is  left,  as  it  were,  floating  in  mid-air  without  any  verb  to  sup- 
|)ort  it.  I  speak  thus  of  English,  becjnise  it  was  of  real  value  to  me. 
I  do  not  speak  of  other  languages ;  l)ecausc  their  educational  value  for 
me  was  almost  insensible.  But,  knowing  the  value  of  English  so 
well,  I  should  be  the  last  to  deny,  or  even  to  doubt,  the  high  disci- 
pline involviMl  in  the  proper  study  of  T^atin  and  Greek. 

That  ."itudy,  moreover,  has  other  merits  aiul  recommendations  which 
havf  be«'M  nin'july  slightly  touched  upon.     It  is  organized  and  sys- 
tematized  by  long-continued   use.     It  is  an  instrument  wielded  by 
some  of  the  l)est  intellects  of  the  country  in  the  education  of  youth  ; 
an<i  it  can  point  to  n'snlts  in  the  achievements  of  our  foremost  men. 
What,  then,  has  scienci^  to  offer  which  is  in  the  least  degree  likely  to 
^L.   compete  with  such  a  system?     SiM-aking  of  the  world  and  nil  that 
^»   therein  is,  of  the  sky  and  the  stars  around  it,  the  ancient  writer  says, 
mL  **  Amd  God  saw  all  that  he  had  made,  and  behold  it  was  very  good.** 

I 


35a  cathcart's  literary  rbader. 

It  ii  the  body  of  things  thus  described  which  science  offers  to  the 
study  of  man. 

The  ultimate  problem  of  physics  is  to  reduce  matter  by  analysis  to 
its  lowest  condition  of  divisibility,  and  force  to  its  simplest  manif. 
tations,  and  then  by  synthesis  to  construct  from  these  elements  tl 
world  as  it  stands.  We  are  still  a  long  way  from  the  final  soluti' 
of  this  problem ;  and  when  the  solution  comes,  it  will  be  one  more 
of  spiritual  insight  than  of  actual  observation.  But  though  we  are 
still  a  long  way  from  this  complete  intellectual  mastery  of  Nature,  we 
have  conquered  vast  regions  of  it,  have  leametl  their  polities  and  the 
play  of  their  powers.  We  live  upon  a  bull  of  matter  eight  thou- 
sand miles  in  diameter,  swathed  by  an  atmosphere  of  unknown  heiirlit . 
This  ball  has  been  molten  by  heat,  chilled  to  a  solid,  and  sculptured 
by  water ;  it  is  made  up  of  substances  possessing  distinctive  proper- 
ties and  modes  of  action,  properties  which  have  an  immediate  bear- 
ing upon  the  continuance  of  man  in  health,  and  on  his  recovery  from 
disease,  on  which  moreover  depend  all  the  arts  of  industrial  lit 
These  properties  and  modes  of  action  offer  problems  to  the  intellect, 
some  profitable  to  the  child,  and  others  sufficient  to  tax  the  highest 
powers  of  the  philosopher.  Our  native  sphere  turns  on  its  axis  and 
revolves  in  space.  It  is  one  of  a  band  which  do  the  same.  It  is 
illuminated  by  a  sun  which,  though  nearly  a  hundred  millions  of 
miles  distant,  can  Ix;  brought  virtually  into  our  closets  and  there  sub- 
jected to  examination.  It  has  its  winds  and  clouds,  its  rain  and 
frost,  its  light,  heat,  sound,  electricity,  and  magnetism.  And  it  has 
its  vast  kingdoms  of  animals  and  vegetables.  To  a  most  amazing 
extent  the  human  mind  has  conquered  these  things,  and  reveals  the 
logic  which  runs  through  them.  Were  they  facts  only,  without  logi- 
cal relationship,  science  might,  as  a  means  of  discipline,  suffer  in 
comparison  with  language.  But  the  whole  lx)dy  of  phenomena  is 
instinct  with  law  ;  the  facts  are  hung  on  principles,  and  the  value  of 
physical  science  as  a  means  of  discipline  consists  in  the  motion  of 
the  intellect,  both  inductively  and  deductively,  along  the  lines  of  laA\ 
marked  out  by  phenomena.  As  regards  that  discipline  to  which  I 
have  already  referred  as  derivable  from  the  study  of  languages, — 
that,  and  more,  are  involved  in  the  study  of  physical  science.  Indeed, 
I  believe  it  would  be  possible  so  to  limit  and  arrange  the  study  of 
a  portion  of  physics  as  to  render  the  mental  exercise  involved  in  it 
almost  qualitatively  the  same  as  that  involved  in  the  unraveling  of  a 
language. 


TYNDALL.  353 

I  haTc  thus  far  limited  myself  to  the  purely  intellectual  side  of  this 
question.  But  man  is  not  all  intellect.  If  he  were  so,  science  would, 
I  believe,  be  his  proper  nutriment.  But  he  feels  as  well  as  thinks ; 
he  is  receptive  of  the  sublime  and  the  beautiful  as  well  as  of  the  true. 
Indeed,  I  believe  that  even  the  intellectual  action  of  a  complete  man 
is,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  sustained  by  an  undercurrent  of  the 
emotions.  It  is  vain,  I  think,  to  attempt  to  separate  moral  and 
emotional  nature  from  intellectual  nature.  Ld.  a  man  but  observe 
himself,  and  he  will,  if  I  mistake  not,  find  that,  in  nine  cases  out  of 
ten,  moral  or  immoral  considerations,  as  the  case  may  be,  are  the 
motive  force  which  pushes  his  intellect  into  action.  The  reading  of 
the  works  of  two  men,  neither  of  them  imbued  with  the  spirit  of 
modern  science,  neither  of  them,  indeed,  friendly  to  that  spirit,  has 
placed  me  here  to-day.  These  men  are  the  English  Carlyle  and  the 
American  Emerson.  I  never  should  have  gone  through  Analytical 
Greometry  and  the  Calculus  had  it  not  been  for  those  men.  I  never 
should  have  become  a  physical  investigator,  and  hence  without  them 
I  should  not  have  been  here  to-day.  They  told  me  what  I  ought  to 
do  in  a  way  that  caused  me  to  do  it,  and  all  my  consequent  intellec- 
tual action  is  to  be  traced  to  this  purely  moral  source.  To  Carlyle 
and  Emerson  I  ought  to  add  Fichte,  the  greatest  representative  of 
pure  idealism.  These  three  unscientific  men  made  me  a  practical 
scientific  worker.  They  called  out,  "  Act !  "  I  hearkened  to  the 
summons,  taking  the  liberty,  however,  of  determining  for  myself  the 
direction  which  effort  was  to  take. 

And  I  may  now  cry,  "  Act !  "  but  the  potency  of  action  must  be 
yours.  I  may  pull  the  trigger,  but  if  the  guji  be  not  charged  there  is 
no  result.  We  are  creators  in  the  intellectual  world  as  little  as  in  the 
physical.  We  may  remove  obstacles,  and  render  latent  capacities 
active,  but  we  cannot  suddenly  change  the  nature  of  man.  The  "  new 
birth  "  itself  implies  the  pre-existence  of  the  new  character  which 
recjuircs  not  to  be  creat<>d  but  brought  forth.  You  cannot  by  any 
amount  of  missionary  labor  smhlcnly  tr.insform  the  savage  into  the 
civiliztrd  Christian.  The  improvement  of  man  is  secular,  —  not  the 
work  of  an  hour  or  of  a  day.  But,  though  indubitably  bound  by 
our  organizations,  no  man  knows  what  the  potentialities  of  any  hu- 
man mind  may  be,  which  require  oidy  release  to  be  brought  into 
aetion. 

The  circle  of  human  nature  is  not  complete  without  the  arc  of  fed- 


3'o\-  CATHCARt's    LITKUARY    RKADER. 

ing  and  emotion.  The  lilies  of  the  field  have  a  value  for  us  lx?yond 
their  botanical  ones,  —  a  certain  lightening  of  the  heart  acconipcuiics 
the  declaration  that  "  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  amiycd  like 
one  of  these."  The  sound  of  the  village  bell  which  comes  mellowed 
from  the  valley  to  the  traveler  upon  the  hill,  has  a  value  beyond  its 
acoustical  one.  The  setting  sun  when  it  mantles  with  the  bloom 
of  roses  the  alpine  snows,  has  a  value  beyond  its  optical  one.  The 
starry  heavens,  as  yoif  know,  had  for  Immanuel  Kant  a  value  beyond 
their  astronomical  one.  Kound  about  the  intellect  sweeps  the  hori- 
zon of  emotions  from  which  all  our  noblest  impulses  are  derived.  I 
think  it  very  desirable  to  keep  this  horizon  open  ;  not  to  permit 
cither  priest  or  philosopher  to  draw  down  his  shutters  between  yon 
and  it.  And  here  the  dead  languages,  which  are  sure  to  be  l)eaten  by 
science  in  the  purely  intellectual  fight,  have  an  irresistible  claim.  They 
supplement  the  work  of  science  by  exalting  and  refining  the  aesthetic 
faculty,  and  must  on  this  account  be  cherished  by  all  who  desire  to 
see  human  culture  complete.  There  must  be  a  reason  for  the  fasci- 
nation which  these  languages  have  so  long  exercised  upon  the  most 
powerful  and  elevated  minds,  —  a  fascination  which  will  probably 
continue  for  men  of  Greek  and  Roman  mold  to  the  end  of  time. 

Let  me  utter  one  practical  word  in  conclusion,  —  take  care  of  your 
health.  There  have  been  men  who  by  wise  attention  to  this  point 
might  have  risen  to  any  eminence,  —  might  have  made  grcjit  discov- 
eries, written  great  poems,  commanded  armies,  or  nded  states,  but 
who  by  unwise  neglect  of  this  point  have  come  to  nothing.  Im- 
agine Hercides  as  oarsman  in  a  rotten  Iwat ;  what  can  he  do  there  but 
by  the  very  force  of  his  stroke  expedite  the  ruin  of  his  craft  ?  Take 
care,  then,  of  the  timbers  of  your  boat,  and  avoid  all  practices  likely  to 
introduce  either  wet  or  dry  rot  among  them.  And  this  is  not  to  be 
accomplished  by  desultory  or  intermittent  efforts  of  the  will,  but  by 
the  formation  of  hndils.  The  will,  no  doubt,  has  sometimes  to  put 
forth  its  strength  in  order  to  strangle  or  crush  the  special  temptation. 
But  the  formation  of  right  habits,  is  essential  to  your  permanent 
security.  They  diminish  your  chance  of  falling  when  assailed,  and 
they  augment  your  chance  of  recovery  when  overthrown. 


QEOROE    1  l.loi.  335 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 

1820- 

GroROt  Eliot  is  the  nom  Je  plume  of  Mariati  C.  Evans,  who  was  born  in  the  North  of  Eng- 
land  about  IbiU.  Of  her  origin  and  early  history  little  is  publicly  known.  During  her  i^irlkood 
she  went  to  Loudon,  and  was  fortunate  enough  to  attract  the  kindly  notice  of  several  eminent 
nirn  of  letters,  who  ditccti-d  in  her  the  signs  of  cxtraorUinary  intellectnal  jwwcr.  Under  their 
din  t-tiurt  ^hc  <  lUcml  ti|)<in  a  ixurse  of  study  more  severe  than  is  usually  attempted  by  members 
1)1  l,<  I  M  \  ^h  .1.1  u  t  i  isii  !i  lo  test  her  abilities  by  public  apiK-araucc  in  literature,  but,  for 
s<  \<  nil  Mars  Into:,  till'  imMh.itiDii  of  her  first  Iwok,  pursued  her  studies  assiduously,  unkuuwu 
to  the  world,  yet  recognized  by  the  few  judicious  friends  who  summnded  and  counseled  her,  aa 
the  possessor  of  exceptional  genius.  In  lljob  her  first  novel,  Adam  Bedr,  appeared,  and  ita 
r(ci[i!i,m  fully  ju-ttifit-d  the  anticipations  of  her  literary  s(X)nsors.  A  few  years  later  it  was 
follow  fd  by  The  MiH  on  the  FIvss,  and,  at  intervals,  by  Itomola,  etc.  With  each  production  her 
tame  iuereased*nnd  for  many  years  she  has  held  unquestioned  rank  as  lirst  among  the  novel- 
ists of  this  century,  llrr  last  novel,  J/iJJIemurch,  has  had  a  deserved,  and  an  almost  unprece- 
dented, popularity.  Two  \oiumes  of  poetry  have  come  from  her  ]H-n,  both  full  of  strength  and 
beauty,  but  scrvuig  to  show  that  prose  fiction  is  her  forte.  Her  intellect  is  rather  masculine 
thai  feminine,  and  her  knowledge  of  human  nature  is  surprising  in  one  whose  sphere  of  obser- 
vation must  necessarily  have  been  restricted.  The  careful  reader  will  notice  wliat  may  l»c  called 
a  lack  of  cosino|whtani8Ui  in  her  books  ;  she  dwells  on  ground  that  is  faiuiliar  to  her,  —  the  details 
of  country  life,  with  which  she  made  acquaintance  in  her  youth,  and  the  o|>eratious  of  the  human 
heart  ami  the  delineation  of  character  of  which  her  studies  and  the  associations  of  her  later  life 
have  made  her  an  intelligent  student.  Her  novels  are  distinctively  inU-Uectual,  lacking  spiritu- 
ality and  wannth ;  but  as  literary  compositions,  combining  profound  thought  and  \igorous,  if 
II 1'  brilliant,  imagination,  they  arc  unsurpassed  in  English  literature.  \  few  years  ago  Miss 
I.  .tiis  l)ccaiiie  the  wife  of  George  Ucnry  Lewes,  the  celebrated  philosophical  writer.  The  ex- 
tracts are  from  JiidJUmarck. 

DE.  LYDGATE. 

A  GREAT  historian,*  as  he  insisted  on  calling  himself,  who  had  the 
iiappiiiess  to  be  dead  a  hundred  and  twenty  years  aj^o,  and  so  to  take 
his  place  among  the  colossi  whose  huge  legs  our  living  pettiness  is 
ob.served  to  walk  under,  glories  in  his  copious  remarks  and  digres- 
sions as  tlie  least  imitable  part  of  his  work,  and  especially  in  those 
initial  chapters  to  thfe  successive  books  of  his  history,  where  he  seems 
to  bring  his  arm-chair  to  the  proscenium,  and  chat  with  us  in  all  the 
lusty  ease  of  his  fine  English.  But  Fielding  lived  when  the  days 
were  longer  (for  time,  like  money,  is  measured  by  our  needs),  when 
summer  afternoons  were  spacious,  and  the  clock  ticked  slowly  in  the 
winter  evenings.  We  belated  historians  must  not  linger  after  his 
cxaniph' ;  and  if  we  did  so  it  is  prolwible  that  our  chat  would  he  thin 
and  eager,  as  if  delivered  from  a  camp-stool  in  a  parrot-house.  I,  at 
lra>t.  Iki\(  mi  much  to  do  in  unraveling  certain  huimiu  lots,  and  seeing 

*  UxxftT  FiUDWO,  u  amiBOit  author  of  the  eif  hteentb  century. 


35 G  cathcaet's  liteuaet  reader. 

how  they  were  woven  and  interwoven,  that  all  the  light  I  can  com- 
mand must  be  concentrated  on  this  particular  web,  and  not  dispersed 
over  that  tempting  range  of  relevancies  called  the  universe. 

At  present  I  have  to  make  the  new  settler  Lydgate  better  known  to 
any  one  interested  in  him  than  he  could  possibly  be  even  to  those  who 
had  seen  the  most  of  him  since  his  arrival  in  Middlemarch.  For 
suR'ly  all  must  admit  that  a  man  may  be  puffed  and  belauded,  envied, 
ridiculed,  counted  upon  as  a  tool,  and  fallen  in  love  with,  or  at  least 
selected  as  a  future  husband,  and  yet  remain  virtually  unknown,  — 
known  merely  as  a  cluster  of  signs  for  his  neighbors'  false  suppositions. 
There  was  a  general  impression,  however,  that  Lydgate  was  not  alto- 
gether a  common  country  doctor,  and  in  Middlemarch  at  that  time 
such  an  impression  was  significant  of  great  things  being  expected 
from  him.  For  everybody's  family  doctor  was  remarkably  clever, 
and  was  understood  to  have  immeasurable  skill  in  the  management 
and  training  of  the  most  skittish  or  vicious  diseases.  The  evidence 
of  his  cleverness  was  of  the  higher  intuitive  order,  lying  in  his  lady 
patients*  immovable  conviction,  and  was  unassailable  by  any  objection 
except  that  their  intuitions  were  opposed  by  others  equally  strong. 
Nobody's  imagination  had  gone  so  far  as  to  conjecture  that  Mr.  Lyd- 
gate could  know  as  much  as  Dr.  Sprague  and  Dr.  Minchin,  the  two 
physicians  who  alone  could  offer  any  hope  when  danger  was  extreme, 
and  when  the  smallest  hope  was  worth  a  guinea.  Still,  I  repeat,  there 
was  a  general  impression  that  Lydgate  was  something  rather  more  im- 
common  than  any  general  practitioner  in  Middlemarch.  And  this  was 
true.  He  was  but  seven-and-twenty,  an  age  at  which  many  men  are  not 
quite  common,  — at  which  they  are  hopeful  of  achievement,  resolute  in 
avoidance,  thinking  that  Mammon  shall  never  put  a  bit  in  their  mouths 
and  get  astride  their  backs,  but  rather  that  Mammon,  if  they  have 
anything  to  do  with  him,  shall  draw  their  chariot. 

He  had  been  left  an  orphan  when  he  was  fresh  from  a  public  school. 
His  father,  a  military  man,  had  made  but  little  provision  for  three 
children ;  and  when  the  boy  Tertius  asked  to  have  a  medical  educa- 
tion, it  seemed  easier  to  his  guardians  to  grant  his  request  by  ap- 
prenticing him  to  a  country  practitioner  than  to  make  any  objections 
on  the  score  of  family  dignity.  He  was  one  of  the  rarer  lads  who 
early  get  a  decided  bent,  and  make  up  their  minds  that  there  is  some- 
thing particular  in  life  which  they  would  like  to  do  for  its  own  sake, 
and  not  because  their  fathers  did  it.     Most  of  us  who  turn  to  any 


GEORGE   ELIOT.  357 

subject  with  love  remember  some  morning  or  evening  hour  when  we 
got  on  a  high  stool  to  reach  down  an  untried  volume,  or  sat  with 
parted  lips  listening  to  a  new  talker,  or  for  very  lack  of  books  begjin 
to  listen  to  the  voices  witliin,  as  tlie  first  traceable  beginning  of  our 
love.  Something  of  that  sort  happened  to  Lydgate.  lie  was  a  quick 
fellow,  and,  when  hot  from  play,  would  toss  himself  in  a  corner,  and 
in  five  minutes  be  deep  in  any  sort  of  book  that  he  could  lay  his 
hands  on  :  if  it  were  R  isseks  or  Gulliver,  so  much  the  better ;  but 
Bailey's  Dictionary  would  do,  or  the  Bible  with  the  Apocrypha  in  it. 
Something  he  must  read  when  he  was  not  riding  the  pony,  or  running 
and  hunting,  or  listening  to  the  talk  of  men.  All  this  was  true  of 
him  at  ten  years  of  age ;  he  had  then  read  through  Chrysal,  or  the 
Adventures  of  a  Guinea,  which  was  neither  milk  for  balK*s  nor  any 
chalky  mixture  meant  to  pass  for  milk ;  and  it  had  already  occurred 
to  him  that  books  were  stuff,  and  that  life  was  stupid.  His  school- 
studies  had  not  much  motlificd  that  opinion ;  for  though  he  "  did  " 
his  classics  and  mathematics,  he  was  not  pre-eminent  in  them. 

It  was  said  of  him  that  Lydgate  could  do  anything  he  liked,  but  he 
had  certainly  not  yet  liked  to  do  anything  remarkable.  He  was  a 
vigorous  animal,  with  a  ready  understanding,  but  no  spark  had  yet 
kindled  in  him  an  intellectual  passion  ;  knowledge  seemed  to  him  a 
very  superficial  affair,  easily  mastered.  Judging  from  the  conversa- 
tion of  his  elders,  he  had  apparently  got  already  more  than  was  neces- 
sary for  mature  life.  Probably  this  was  not  an  exceptional  result  of 
expensive  tcjiching  at  that  period  of  short-waisted  coats,  and  other 
fashions  which  have  not  yet  recurred.  But,  one  vacation,  a  wet  day 
sent  him  to  the  small  home  librai-y  to  hunt  once  more  for  a  book 
which  might  have  some  freshness  for  him :  in  vain !  unless,  indeed, 
he  took  down  a  dusty  row  of  volumes  with  gray  paper  backs  and  dingy 
lalK'ls,  — the  volumes  of  an  old  Cyclopedia  which  he  had  never  dis- 
turl)ed.  It  would  at  least  be  a  novelty  to  disturb  them.  They  were 
on  the  highest  shelf,  and  he  stood  on  a  chair  to  get  them  down.  But 
he  opened  the  volume  he  first  took  from  the  shelf:  somehow,  one  is 
apt  to  read  in  a  make-shifl  attitude,  just  wherti  it  might  seem  incon- 
venient to  do  so.  The  page  he  opened  on  was  under  the  head  of  Anat- 
omy, and  the  first  passjige  that  drew  his  eyes  was  on  the  valves  of  the 
heart.  He  was  not  nuich  acquainted  with  valves  of  any  sort,  but  he 
knew  that  vahft  were  folding-<loors,  and  through  this  crevice  came  a 
sudden  light,  startling  him  with  his  first  vivid  notion  of  finely  ad- 


358  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

justed  mechanism  in  the  human  frame.  A  lil)ei-al  education  had, 
of  course,  It^fl  him  free  to  read  the  indecent  passages  in  the  school 
classics,  but,  beyond  a  general  sense  of  secrecy  and  obscenity  in  con- 
nection with  his  internal  structure,  had  left  his  imagination  quite 
unbiased,  so  that  for  anything  he  knew  his  brains  lay  in  small  bags 
at  his  temples,  and  he  ha<l  no  more  thought  of  representing  to  himself 
how  his  blood  circulated  than  how  paper  served  instead  of  gold. 
]iut  the  moment  of  vocation  had  come,  aiul  l)efore  he  got  down 
from  his  chair,  the  world  was  made  new  to  him  by  a  presentiment  of 
endless  processes  filling  the  vast  spaces  planked  out  of  his  sight  by 
that  wordy  ignorance  which  he  hwl  supposed  to  be  knowledge. 
From  that  hour  Lydgatc  felt  the  growth  of  an  intellectual  passion. 

We  are  not  jifr.iid  of  telling  over  and  over  again  how  a  man  comes 
to  fall  in  love  with  a  woman  and  Ix;  wedded  to  her,  or  else  be  fatally 
parted  from  her.  Is  it  due  to  excess  of  poetry  or  of  stupidity  that 
we  are  never  weary  of  describing  what  King  James  called  a  woman's 
"  makdom  and  her  fairnesse,"  never  weary  of  listening  to  the  twang- 
ing of  the  old  Troubadour  strings,  and  are  comparatively  uninteresttMl 
in  that  other  kind  of  "  makdom  and  fairnesse  "  which  must  be  wooed 
with  iudustrio\is  thought  and  patient  renunciation  of  small  desires  ? 
In  the  story  of  this  passion,  too,  the  development  varies :  sometimes 
it  is  the  glorious  marriage,  sometimes  frustration  and  final  parting. 
And  not  seldom  the  catastrophe  is  wound  up  with  the  other  passion, 
sung  by  the  Troubadours.  For  in  the  multitude  of  middle-aged  men 
who  go  about  their  vocations  in  a  daily  course  determined  for  them 
much  in  the  same  way  as  the  tie  of  their  cravats,  there  is  always  a 
good  numl)er  who  once  meant  to  shape  their  own  deeds  and  alter  the 
world  a  little.  The  story  of  their  coming  to  be  shapen  after  the  aver- 
age, and  fit  to  l)e  packed  by  the  gross,  is  hardly  ever  told  even  in  their 
consciousiu'ss  ;  for  perhaps  their  ardor  for  generous,  unpaid  toil  cooled 
as  imperceptibly  as  the  ardor  of  other  youthful  loves,  till  one  day  their 
earlier  self  walked  like  a  ghost  in  its  old  home  and  made  the  new  fur- 
niture ghastly.  Nothing  in  the  world  more  subtle  than  the  process  of 
their  gradual  change  !  In  the  beginning  they  inhaled  it  unknowingly  : 
you  and  I  may  have  sent  some  of  our  breath  toward  infecting  them, 
when  we  uttered  our  conforming  falsities  or  drew  our  silly  conclusions ; 
or  perhaps  it  came  with  the  vibrations  from  a  woman's  glance. 

Lydgatc  did  not  mean  to  be  one  of  those  failures,  and  there  Avas 
the  better  hope  of  him  because  his  scientific  interest  soon  took  the 


GEOaOE   ELIOT.  359 

form  of  a  professional  enthusiasm ;  he  had  a  youthful  belief  in  his 
hrentl-winiiiiig  work,  not  to  be  stifled  by  that  initiation  in  make-shift 
called  his  'prentice  days  ;  and  he  carried  to  his  studies  in  London, 
Edinburgh,  and  Paris  the  conviction  that  the  medical  profession  as  it 
nii«;ht  Ihj  was  the  finest  in  the  world  ;  presenting  the  most  perfect 
iutereiiange  between  science  and  art ;  offering  the  most  direct  alliance 
l)etween  intellectual  conquest  and  the  social  good.  Lydgate's  nature 
demanded  this  conibination :  he  was  an  emotional  creature,  with  a 
flesh-and-blood  sense  of  fellowship  which  withstood  all  the  abstrac- 
tions of  special  study.  He  cared  not  only  for  "  cases,"  but  for  John 
and  Elizabeth,  especially  Elizabeth. 

DR.  LYDGATE  (cantintted). 

PoES  it  seem  incongruous   to  you  that  a  Middlemarch  surgeon 
iiould  dream  of  himself  as  a  discoverer  ?     Most  of  us,  indeed,  know 
ttle  of  the  great  originators  until  they  have  been  lifted  up  among  the 
( onstellations,  and  already  nde  our  fates.     But  that  Ilerschel,  for  ex- 
ample, who  "broke  the  barriers  of  the  heavens"  —  did  he  not  once 
play  a  provincial  church  organ,  and  give  music-lessons  to  stumbling 
pianists?     Each    of  those  Shining  Ones  had  to  walk  on  the  earth 
inong  neighbors  who  perhaps  thought  much  more  of  his  gait  and  his 
garments  than  of  anything  which  was  to  give  him  a  title  to  everlasting 
ime;  each  of  them  had  his  little  local  personal  historj'  sprinkled  with 
mail  temptations  and  sordid  cares,  which  made  the  retarding  friction 
f  his  course  towanl  final  companionship  with  the  immortals.     Lyd- 
ite  was  not  blind  to  the  dangers  of  such  friction,  but  he  had  plenty 
t"  confidence  in  his  resolution  to  avoid  it  as  far  as  possible ;  being 
ven-and-twenty,  he  felt  himself  experienced. 

Perhaps  that  was  a  more  cheerful  time  for  observers  and   theo- 

i/ers  than  the  present ;  we  are  apt  to  think  it  the  finest  era  of  the 

orld  when  America  was  beginning  to  be  discovered,  when  a  bold 

-  lilor,  even  if  he  were  ^vrecke<l,  might  alight  on  a  new  kingdom  ; 

:md  al)Out  1829  the  dark  territories  of  Pathology  were  a  fine  America 

T  a  spirited  young  adventurer.     Lydgate  was  ambitious  above  all 

•    contribute    toward    enlarging  the  scientific,  rational  basis  of  his 

profession.     The  more  he  became  intereste<l  in  special  questions  of 

'l'**«i!<e,  such  as  the  nntun*  of  fever  or  fevers,  the  more  keeiily  he  felt 

le  need  for  that  fundamental  knowledge  of  structure  which  just  at 


360  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

the  beginninfif  of  the  century  had  been  illuminated  by  the  brief  an  ' 
glorious  career  of  Bichat,  who  died  when  he  was  only  one-and-thirty, 
but,  like  another  Alexander,  left  a  realm  large  enough  for  many  heirs. 
That  great  Frenchman  first  carried  out  the  conception  that  living 
bodies,  fundamentally  considered,  are  not  associations  of  organs 
which  can  be  understood  by  studying  them  first  apart,  and  then,  as  it 
were,  federally ;  but  must  be  regarded  as  consisting  of  certain  primar\ 
webs  or  tissues,  out  of  which  the  various  organs  —  brain,  heart,  lunii 
and  so  on  —  are  compacted,  as  the  various  accommodations  of  a  house 
are  built  up  in  various  proportions  of  wood,  iron,  stone,  brick,  zinc, 
and  the  rest,  e^ch  material  having  its  peculiar  composition  and  pro- 
portions. No  man,  one  sees,  can  understand  and  estimate  the  entir 
structure  or  its  parts,  what  are  iU  frailties  and  what  its  repair- 
without  knowing  the  nature  of  the  materials.  And  the  conception 
wrouj^ht  out  by  Bichat,  with  his  detailed  study  of  the  different 
tissues,  acted  necessarily  on  medical  questions  as  the  turning  of  gas- 
light would  act  on  a  dim,  oil-lit  street,  showing  new  connections  and 
hitherto  hidden  facts  of  structure  which  must  be  taken  into  account  in 
considering  the  symptoms  of  maladies  and  the  action  of  medicaments. 
But  results  which  depend  on  human  conscience  and  intelligence 
work  slowly,  and  now  most  medical  practice  was  still  strutting  or 
shambling  along  the  old  paths,  and  there  was  still  scientific  work  to 
be  done  which  might  have  seemed  to  be  a  direct  sequence  of  Bichat's. 
This  great  seer  did  not  go  beyond  the  consideration  of  the  tissues  as 
idtimate  facts  in  the  living  organism,  marking  the  limit  of  anatomical 
analysis ;  but  it  was  open  to  another  mind  to  say,  Have  not  these 
structures  some  common  basis  from  which  they  have  all  started,  as 
your  sarcenet,  gauze,  net,  satin,  and  velvet  from  the  raw  cocoon  ? 
Here  would  be  another  light,  as  of  oxyhydrogen,  showing  the  very 
grain  of  things,  and  revising  all  former  explanations.  Of  this  se- 
quence to  Bichat's  work,  already  vibrating  along  many  currents  of 
the  European  mind,  Lydgate  was  enamored ;  he  longed  to  demon- 
strate the  more  intimate  relations  of  living  structure,  and  help  to 
define  men's  thought  more  accurately  after  the  true  order.  The  work 
had  not  yet  been  done,  but  only  prepared  for  those  who  knew  how  to 
use  the  preparation.  What  was  the  primitive  tissue  ?  In  that  way 
Lydgiite  put  the  question,  —  not  quite  in  the  way  required  by  the 
awaiting  answer;  but  such  missing  of  the  right  word  befalls  many 
seekers.     And  he  counted  on  quiet  intervals  to  be  watchfully  seized 


GEORGE    ELIOT. 


361 


for  taking  up  the  threads  of  investigation,  —  on  many  hints  to  be  won 
from  diligent  application,  not  only  of  the  scalpel,  but  of  the  micro- 
scope, which  resciirch  had  begun  to  use  again  with  new  enthusiasm  of 
reliance.  Such  was  Lydgate's  plan  of  his  future  :  to  do  good  small 
work  for  Middlemarch,  and  great  work  for  the  world. 

He  was  certainly  a  happy  fellow  at  this  time ;  to  be  seven-and- 
twenty,  without  any  fixed  vices,  with  a  generous  resolution  that  his 
action  should  be  beneficent,  and  with  ideas  in  his  brain  that  made  life 
interesting,  he  was  at  a  starting-point  which  makes  many  a  man's  career 
a  fine  subject  for  betting,  if  there  were  any  gentlemen  given  to  that 
amusement  who  could  appreciate  the  complicated  probabilities  of  an 
arduous  purpose,  with  all  the  possible  thwartings  and  furtherings  of 
circumstance,  all  the  niceties  of  inward  balance,  by  which  a  man 
swims  and  makes  his  point,  or  else  is  carried  headlong.  The  risk 
would  remain,  even  with  close  knowledge  of  Lydgate's  character ;  for 
character,  too,  is  a  process  and  an  unfolding.  The  man  was  still  in 
the  making,  as  much  as  the  Middlemarch  doctor  and  immortal  dis- 
coverer, and  there  were  both  virtues  and  faults  capable  of  shrinking 
or  expanding.  The  faults  will  not,  1  hope,  be  a  reason  for  the  with- 
drawal of  your  interest  in  him.  Among  our  valued  friends  is  there 
not  some  one  or  other  who  is  a  little  too  self-confident  and  disdainful, 
whose  distinguished  mind  is  a  little  spotted  with  commonness,  Avho 
is  a  little  pinehe<l  here  and  protuberant  there  with  native  prejudices, 
or  whose  better  energies  are  liable  to  lapse  dowu  the  wrong  channel 
under  the  influence  of  transient  solicitations?  All  these  things  might 
be  alleged  against  Lydgate,  but  then  they  are  the  periphrases  of  a 
polite  preacher,  who  talks  of  Adam,  and  would  not  like  to  mention 
anything  painful  to  the  pew-renters.  The  partieidar  faults  from 
which  these  delicsite  generalities  arc  distilled  have  distinguishable 
physiognomitrs,  diction,  accent,  and  grimaces ;  filling  up  parts  in  very 
various^ramas.  Our  vanities  differ  as  our  noses  do  ;  all  conceit  is  not 
the  same  conceit,  but  varies  in  correspondence  with  the  minutise  of 
metital  make  in  which  one  of  us  differs  from  another. 

Lydgate's  conceit  was  of  the  arrogant  sort,  never  simpering,  never 
impertinent,  but  massive  in  its  claims,  and  benevolently  contemptuous. 
He  would  do  a  greiit  deid  for  noodles,  being  sony  for  them,  and 
feeling  quite  sure  that  they  could  have  no  power  over  him  ;  he  had 
thought  of  joining  the  Saint  Simonians  when  he  was  in  Paris,  in 
order  to  turn  them  against  some  of  their  own  doctrines.  All  his 
16 


362  cathcart's  litebaet  reader. 

faults  were  marked  by  kindred  traits,  and  were  those  of  a  man  who 
had  a  fine  baritone,  whose  clothes  hung  avcU  upon  him,  and  who  even 
in  his  ordinary  gestures  had  an  air  of  inbred  distinction.  Where, 
then,  lay  the  spots  of  commonness  ?  says  a  young  lady,  enaniorwl  of 
that  careless  grace.  How  could  there  be  any  commonness  in  a  man 
so  well  bred,  so  ambitious  of  social  distinction,  so  generous  and 
unusual  in  his  views  of  social  duty  ?  As  easily  as  there  may  be 
stupidity  in  a  man  of  genius  if  you  take  him  unawares  on  the  >\Tong 
subject,  or  as  many  a  man  who  has  the  best  will  to  advance  the  social 
millennium  might  be  ill  inspired  in  imagining  its  lighter  pleasures ; 
unable  to  go  beyond  Offenbach's  music,  or  the  brilliant  punning  in 
the  last  burlesque.  Lydgate's  spots  of  commonness  lay  in  the  com- 
plexion of  his  prejudices,  which,  in  spite  of  noble  intention  and  sympa- 
thy, were  half  of  them  such  as  are  found  in  ordinary  men  of  tin; 
worhl :  that  distinction  of  mind  which  belonged  to  his  intellectual 
ardor  did  not  penetrate  his  feeling  and  judgment  about  furniture,  or 
women,  or  the  desirability  of  its  being  known  (without  his  telling) 
that  he  was  better  born  than  other  country  surgeons.  He  did  not 
mean  to  think  of  furniture  at  present;  but  whenever  he  did  so,  it  was 
to  be  feared  that  neither  biology  nor  schemes  of  reform  would  lift 
him  above  the  vulgarity  of  feeling  that  there  would  be  an  incompati- 
bility in  his  furniture  not  being  of  the  best. 

A  WORLDLY  PICTURE. 

Every  limit  is  a  beginning  as  well  as  an  ending.  Who  can  quit 
young  lives  .ifter  l)eing  long  in  company  with  them,  and  not  desire  to 
know  what  befell  them  in  their  after-years  ?  For  the  fragment  of  a  life, 
however  typical,  is  not  the  sample  of  an  even  web;  promises  may 
not  be  kept,  and  an  ardent  outset  may  be  followed  by  declension  ; 
latent  powers  may  find  their  long-waited  opportunity ;  a  p^t  error 
may  ni*ge  a  grand  retrieval. 

^larriago,  which  has  been  the  bourne  of  so  many  narratives,  is  still 
a  great  l^eginning,  as  it  was  to  Adam  and  Eve,  who  kept  their  honey- 
moon in  Eden,  but  had  their  first  little  one  among  the  thorns  and 
thistles  of  the  wilderness.  It  is  still  the  beginning  of  the  home  epic, 
—  the  gradual  conquest  or  irremediable  loss  of  that  complete  imion 
which  makes  the  advancing  years  a  climax,  and  age  the  han'est  of 
sweet  memories  in  common. 


OEOROB   ELIOT.  368 

Some  set  out,  like  Crusaders  of  old,  with  a  glorious  equipment  of 
liope  and  enthusiasm,  and  get  broken  by  the  way,  wanting  patience 
with  each  other  and  the  world. 

All  who  have  ain*d  for  Fred  Vincy  and  Mary  Grarth  will  like  to 
know  that  these  two  niiule  no  such  failure,  but  achieved  a  solid  mutual 
happiness.  Fred  surjjrised  his  neigiilwrs  in  various  ways.  He  l)e- 
canic  rather  distinguished  in  his  side  of  the  county  as  a  theoretic  and 
practiad  farmer,  and  produced  a  work  on  the  Cidtivation  of  Green 
Crops  and  the  Economy  of  Cattle-Feeding  which  won  him  high  con- 
gratulations at  agricultural  mwttings  ;  but  in  Middlcmarch  admiration 
Avas  more  reserved  :  most  persons  there  were  inclined  to  believe  that 
the  merit  of  Fred's  authorship  was  due  to  his  wife,  since  they  had 
never  expected  Fred  Yincy  to  write  on  turnips  and  mangel-wurzel. 

But  when  Mary  wrote  a  little  book  for  her  lx)ys,  called  Stories  of 
Great  Men,  tjikcn  from  Plutarch,  and  had  it  printed  and  published  by 
Gripp  &  Co.,  Middlcmarch,  every  one  in  the  town  was  willing  to 
give  the  credit  of  this  work  to  Fred,  observing  that  he  had  been  to  the 
University,  "wl:ei*e  the  ancients  were  studied,"  and  might  have  been 
a  clergyman  if  he  had  chosen. 

In  this  way  it  was  made  clear  that  Middlcmarch  had  never  been 
dcceivetl,  and  thiit  there  was  no  need  to  praise  anybody  for  writing  a 
book,  since  it  was  always  done  by  somebody  else. 

Moreover,  Fred  remained  imswervingly  steady.  Some  years  after 
his  marriage  he  told  Mary  that  his  happiness  was  half  owing  to  Fare- 
brother,  who  gave  him  a  strong  pull-up  at  the  right  moment.  I 
cannot  say  that  he  was  never  again  misled  by  his  hopefulness :  the 
yield  of  crops  or  tlie  profits  of  a  cattle  side  usually  fell  below  his 
estimate;  and  he  was  always  prone  to  l)elieve  that  he  could  make 
money  by  the  purchase  of  a  horse  which  turned  out  badly,  —  though 
tills,  Miiy  observetl,  was  of  course  the  fault  of  the  horse,  not  of  Fred's 
juiigiiii  lit.  He  kept  his  love  of  horsemanship,  but  he  rarely  allowed 
himself  a  day's  hunting ;  and  when  he  did  so,  it  M'ns  remarkable  that 
he  submitted  to  l)e  laughed  at  for  cowardliness  at  the  fences,  seeming 
to  see  Mary  and  the  l)oys  sitting  on  the  five-barred  gate,  or  showing 
their  curly  heads  l)etween  hedge  and  ditch. 

Hurt!  were  three  boys  :  Mar\'  was  not  discontented  that  she  brought 
forth  men-children  only  ;  aiul  when  Fred  wished  to  have  a  girl  like 
her,  she  said  laughingly,  **  That  woidd  be  too  great  a  trial  to  your 
mother."     Mrs.  Vincy  in  her  declining  years,  and  in  the  diminished 


k 


36i  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

luster  of  her  housekeeping,  was  much  comforted  by  her  perception 
that  two  at  least  of  Fred's  boys  were  real  Vincys,  and  did  not  "  feature 
the  Garths."  But  Mary  secn'tly  rejoiced  that  the  youngest  of  the  tliree 
was  very  much  what  her  father  must  have  been  when  he  wore  a  round 
jacket,  and  showed  a  marvelous  nicety  of  aim  in  pkying  at  mar])lc's, 
or  in  throwing  stones  to  bring  down  the  mellow  pears. 

Ikn  and  Letty  Garth,  who  were  uncle  and  aunt  before  they  were 
well  in  their  teens,  disputed  much  as  to  whether  nephews  or  nieces 
were  more  desirable;  Bea  conteuding  that  it  was  dear  girls  wer* 
good  for  less  than  boys,  else  they  would  not  be  always  in  petticoats, 
which  showed  how  little  they  were  meant  for ;  whereupon  Letty,  who 
argued  much  from  books,  got  angry  in  replying  that  God  made  coats 
of  skins  for  both  Adam  and  Eve  alike,  —  also  it  occurred  to  her  that 
in  the  East  the  men  too  wore  petticoats.  But  this  latter  argument, 
obscuring  the  majesty  of  the  former,  was  one  too  many,  for  Ben 
answered,  contemptuously,  "  The  more  spooneys  they  !  "  and  immedi- 
ately appealed  to  his  mother  whether  boys  were  not  better  than  girls. 
Mrs.  Garth  pronounced  that  both  were  alike  naughty ;  but  that  boys 
were  undoubtedly  stronger,  could  run  faster,  and  throw  with  more 
precision  to  a  greater  distance.  With  this  oracular  sentence  Ben  was 
well  satisfied,  not  minding  the  naughtiness ;  but  Letty  took  it  ill,  her 
feeling  of  superiority  being  stronger  than  her  muscles. 

Fred  never  became  rich,  —  his  hopefulness  had  not  led  him  to 
expect  that ;  but  he  gradually  saved  enough  to  become  owner  of  the 
stock  and  furniture  at  Stone  Court,  and  the  work  which  Mr.  Garth 
put  into  his  hands  carried  him  in  plenty  through  those  "  bad  times  " 
which  are  always  present  with  farmers.  Mary,  in  her  matronly  days, 
became  as  solid  in  figure  as  her  mother ;  but,  unlike  her,  gave  the 
boys  little  formal  teaching,  so  that  Mrs.  Garth  was  alarmed  lest  they 
should  never  be  well  grounded  in  grammar  and  geography.  Never- 
theless, they  were  found  quite  forward  enough  when  they  went  to 
school ;  perhaps  because  they  had  liked  nothing  so  well  as  being  with 
their  mother.  When  Fred  was  riding  home  on  winter  evenings,  he 
had  a  pleasant  vision  beforehand  of  the  bright  hearth  in  the  wainscoted 
parlor,  and  was  sorry  for  other  men  who  could  not  have  Mary  for 
their  wife ;  especially  for  Mr.  Farebrother.  "  He  was  ten  times 
worthier  of  you  than  I  was,"  Fred  could  now  say  to  her,  magnani- 
mously. "  To  be  sure  he  was,"  Mary  answered  ;  "  and  for  that  reason 
he  could  do  better  without  me.     But  you  —  I  shudder  to  think  what 


GEORGE   ELIOT.  365 

you  would  have  been, — a  curate  in  <l<'l)t  for  liorso-hiri>  and  r.imlirin 
pocket-handkercliicfs !  " 

Lydjftite's  liair  never  became  white,  lie  died  wlieii  lie  was  oniy 
fifty,  leaving  his  wife  and  children  provided  for  by  a  heavy  insurance 
on  his  life.  He  had  jc^ii'ied  ^'^  excellent  practice,  alteniating,  accord- 
ing to  the  season,  between  London  and  a  Continental  bathing-pkce  ; 
having  written  a  treatise  on  Gout,  a  disease  which  has  a  good  deal  of 
wealth  on  its  side.  His  skill  was  relied  on  by  many  paying  patients, 
but  he  always  regarded  himself  as  a  failure  ;  he  had  not  done  what 
he  once  meant  to  do.  His  acquaintances  thought  him  enviable  to 
have  so  charming  a  wife,  and  nothing  happened  to  shake  their  opinion. 
Rosamond  never  committed  a  second  compromising  indiscretion.  She 
simply  continued  to  be  mild  in  her  temper,  inflexible  in  her  judgment, 
disposed  to  admonish  her  husband,  and  able  to  frustrate  him  by  strat- 
agem. As  the  years  went  on,  he  opposed  her  less  and  less,  whence 
Rosamond  concluded  that  he  had  learned  the  value  of  her  opinion ; 
on  the  other  hand,  she  had  a  more  thorough  conviction  of  his  talents 
now  that  he  gained  a  good  income,  and  instead  of  the  threatened 
cage  in  Bride  Street  provided  one  all  flowers  and  gilding,  fit  for  the 
bird-of-paradise  that  she  resembled.  In  brief,  Lydgate  was  what  is 
called  a  successful  man.  But  he  died  prematurely  of  diphtheria,  and 
Rosamond  afterward  married  an  elderly  and  wealthy  physician,  who 
took  kindly  to  her  four  children. 

Dorothea  never  repented  that  she  had  given  up  position  and  fortune 
to  marry  Will  Ijadislaw,  and  he  would  have  held  it  the  greatest  shame 
as  well  as  sorrow  to  him  if  she  had  repented.  They  were  bound  to 
each  other  by  a  love  stronger  than  any  impulses  which  could  have 
marred  it.  No  life  would  have  l)een  possible  to  Dorothea  which  was 
not  filled  with  emotion,  atid  she  had  now  a  life  filled  also  with  a  benefi- 
cent activity  which  she  had  not  the  doubtful  pains  of  discovering  and 
marking  out  for  herself.  Will  became  an  ardent  public  man,  working 
well  in  those  times  when  reforms  were  begun  with  a  young  hopefulness 
of  immediate  good  which  has  been  much  checked  in  our  days,  and 
getting  at  last  returned  to  Parliament  by  a  constituency  who  paid  his 
expenses.  Dorothea  could  have  liked  nothing  l)etter,  since  wrongs 
existed,  than  that  her  husband  should  l)e  in  the  thick  of  a  struggle 
against  them,  and  that  she  should  give  him  wifely  help.  Many  who 
knew  her  thought  it  a  pity  that  so  substantive  and  nire  a  creature 
should  have  been  absorl)ed  into  the  life  of  another,  and  be  oidy  known 
in  a  certain  circle  as  a  wife  and  mother. 


cathcart's  literaey  reader. 

Sir  James  never  ceased  to  regard  Dorothea's  second  marriage  as  a 
mistake ;  and  indeed  this  remained  the  tradition  concerning  it  in 
Middlemarch,  where  she  was  spoken  of  to  a  younger  generation  as  a 
fine  girl  who  married  a  sickly  clergyman,  old  enough  to  be  her  father, 
and  in  little  more  than  a  year  after  his  death  gave  up  her  estate  to 
marry  his  cousin, — young  enough  to  have  Ixjen  his  son,  witli  no 
property,  and  not  well-born.  Those  who  had  not  seen  anything  of 
Dorothea  usually  observed  that  she  could  not  have  been  "  a  nice  wo- 
man/' else  she  would  not  have  married  either  the  one  or  the  other. 

Certaiidy  those  determining  acts  of  her  life  were  not  ideally  beauti- 
ful. They  were  the  mixed  result  of  young  and  noble  impulse  strug- 
gling under  prosaic  conditions.  Among  the  many  remarks  passed  on 
her  mistakes,  it  was  never  said  in  the  neighborhood  of  Middlemarch 
that  such  mistakes  could  not  have  happened  if  the  society  into  wliich 
she  was  born  had  not  smiled  on  propositions  of  marriage  from  a 
sickly  man  to  a  girl  less  than  half  his  own  age,  —  on  modes  of  educa- 
tion which  make  a  woman's  knowUnlgc  another  name  for  motley  ig- 
norance,—  on  rules  of  conduct  which  are  in  flat  contradiction  with  \t< 
own  loudly  asserted  beliefs.  While  this  is  the  social  air  in  which 
mortals  begin  to  breathe,  there  will  be  collisions  such  as  those  in 
Dorothea's  life,  where  great  feelings  will  take  the  aspect  of  error,  aiul 
great  faith  the  asjx'ct  of  illusion.  For  there  is  no  creature  whosi 
inward  being  is  so  strong  that  it  is  not  greatly  determined  by  what 
lies  outside  it.  A  new  Theresa  will  hardly  have  the  opportunity  of 
reforming  a  conventual  life,  any  more  than  a  new  Antigone  will  spend 
her  heroic  piety  in  daring  all  for  the  sake  of  a  brother's  burial ;  the 
medium  in  which  their  ardent  deeds  took  shape  is  forever  gone.  But 
we  insignificant  people,  with  our  daily  words  and  acts,  are  preparing 
the  lives  of  many  Dorotheas,  some  of  which  may  present  a  far  sadder 
sacrifice  than  that  of  the  Dorothea  whose  story  we  know. 

Her  finely  touched  spirit  had  still  its  fine  issues,  though  they  were 
not  widely  \nsible.  Her  full  nature,  like  that  river  of  which  Alexan- 
der broke  the  strength,  spent  itself  in  channels  which  had  no  great 
name  on  the  earth.  But  the  effect  of  her  being  on  those  around  her 
was  incalculably  diffusive;  for  the  growing  good  of  the  world  is 
partly  dependent  on  unhistoric  acts ;  and  that  things  are  not  so  ill 
with  you  and  me  as  they  might  have  been  is  half  owing  to  the  number 
who  lived  faithfully  a  hidden  life,  and  rest  in  unvisited  tombs. 


PAETON.  367 

PARTON. 

1822- 

James  Partow,  though  a  native  of  England,  where  he  was  horn  in  1822,  has  lived  in  the 
rniteU  Stall's  since  hi«  early  childhood.  He  has  lieen  an  industrious  writer,  chiefly  in  the  field 
of  t)i()-rra|)hy,  in  which  he  has  done  some  admirahle  work.  His  lirst  book  was  The  Life  of  Horace 
drerlri/,  wliich  wa-s  |)ul)li!>hc«l  in  Itioo,  and  it  has  been  followed  by  biographies  of  Aurun  Burr, 
Anlrcir  JtiriiuH,  lienjamtH  F.  Butler,  John  Jacob  Astor,  and  Thomas  Jrjfcnon.  He  has  labored 
111  iitlur  (lipartmcnts  of  literature,  editing  The  Humoroiu  Poetry  of  the  English  iMiujuage,  and 
wntiii<;  sevt-mi  pamphlets  on  New  York  politico,  etc. ;  but  his  fame  as  a  writer  will  rest  on  his 
bu.^'rai)hical  work.  In  this  specialty  he  has  been  signally  successful  in  presenting  >ivid  and  at- 
iractne  portraits  of  his  subjects,  supiwrted  by  dramatic  pictures  of  their  times.  In  reaching 
tliis  result  he  has  been  forced  to  disregnnl  in  many  instances  the  strict  records  of  history,  and 
his  biographies  are,  therefore,  not  absolutely  unimpeachable^  in  point  of  facts.  He  displays 
ercat  industry  in  the  collection  of  material  and  great  skill  in  its  arrangement ;  and,  by  availing 
r  of  many  personal  particulars  which  most  biographers  would  deem  too  insignificant  for 
1^  made  his  iMuks  exceptionally  readable.  His  Life  of  Thomas  Jefferson,  recently  pul>- 
.^..^.1.  lumishcs  good  specimens  of  his  faults  and  his  merits:  it  is  full  of  matter,  and  very 
fascinating ;  but  it  is  marred  somewhat  by  historical  inaccuracies. 

PATRICK  HENEY'S  SPEECH  ON  CONCILIATION  WITH  ENGLAND. 

P.\TRICK  Henry  had  been  coming  and  going  during  Jefferson's 
^tiidfiit  years,*  (Iroppiiifj:  in  when  the  General  Court  met  in  the  autumn, 
and  riding  homeward,  witli  a  book  or  two  of  Jefferson's  in  his  saddle- 
bags, when  the  court  adjourned  over  till  the  spring;  then  returning 
with  the  books  unread.  The  wondrous  eloquence  which  he  had  dis- 
])layed  in  the  Parsons  Case  in  December,  1763,  does  not  seem  to  have 
l).<ii  .riiicr.illy  known  in  Williamsburg  in  1764;  for  he  moved  about 
ih.  St  nets  and  pui)lic  places  unrecognized,  though  not  unmarked.  It 
would  not  have  been  extraordinary  if  our  young  student  had  been  a 
little  ashamed  of  his  oddity  of  a  guest  as  they  walked  together  to- 
wards the  Capitol,  at  the  time  when  the  young  ladies  were  abroad,  — 
Siikcy  Potter,  Betsy  Moore,  Judy  Burwell,  and  the  rest  ;  for  Henry's 
(ln*ss  was  coarse,  worn,  and  countrified,  and  he  walketl  with  such  an 
air  of  thoughtless  unconcern  that  he  was  taken  by  some  for  an  idiot. 
Hut  he  had  a  cause  to  plead  that  winter;  and  when  he  sat  down  he 
had  become  "  Mr.  Henry  "  to  all  Williamsburg.     You  will  observe  in 

•  The  extract  is  from  Parton's  Life  of  Jefferson.  Jefferson  at  thu  time  was  a  law-student 
and  a  warm  personal  friend  of  Patrick  Henry,  wlio  was  lumself  a  young  man  and  just  liecoming 
kn..»n  as  a  skillful  lawyer  and  popular  speaker.  The  speech  referred  to  was  dehvered  in  the 
N  ir;;iitia  House  of  BurgesMt  — a  body  somewhat  resembling  the  State  I/egislature  of  to-day  — 
III  IT';.'),  and  is  generally  familiar  to  Mbool-children,  extracU  from  it  being  given  in  nearly  aU 
vm...j1  "Speakers." 


368  CATliCAUl'a    LilLKAKY    UEADLU. 

the  memorials  of  Old  Virginia,  from  1765  to  1800,  that,  whoever 
else  may  be  named  without  a  prefix  of  honor,  this  "  forest-born  De- 
mosthenes," as  Byron  styled  him,  is  generally  styled  Mr.  Henrv. 
To  Washington,  to  Jefferson,  to  Madison,  to  all  that  circle  of  eminent 
men,  he  ever  remained  "  Mr.  Henry."  On  that  day  iji  1764  he  gave 
such  an  exhibition  of  his  power,  that,  during  the  next  session  of 
the  House  of  Burgesses,  a  vacancy  was  made  for  him,  and  he  was 
elected  to  a  seat.  The  up-country  yeomen,  whose  idol  he  had  be- 
come, gladly  gave  their  votes  to  such  a  man,  when  the  Stamp  Act  was 
expected  to  be  a  topic  of  debate. 

And  so,  in  May,  1765,  the  new  member  was  in  Williamsburg  to 
take  his  seat,  a  guest  again  of  his  young  friend  Jefferson.  He  sut, 
day  after  day,  waiting  for  some  of  the  older  members  to  open  the  sul)- 
ject.  But  no  one  seemed  to  know  just  wliat  to  do.  A  year  befoir 
the  House  had  gently  denied  the  right  of  Parliament  to  tax  the  colo- 
nies, and  softly  remonstrated  against  the  threatened  measure ;  but  as 
the  act  had  been  passed,  in  spite  of  their  objections,  what  more  could 
a  loyal  colony  do?  No  one  thought  of  formal  resistance,  and  remon- 
strance had  failed.  What  else  ?  What  next  ?  However  frequently 
the  two  friends  may  have  conversed  upon  this  perplexity,  it  was 
Patrick  Henry  who,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  alone,  unadvised,  and 
unassisted,"  hit  upon  the  proper  expedient. 

Only  three  days  of  the  session  remained.  On  the  blank  leaf  of  an 
old  Coke  upon  Lyttleton  *  —  perhaps  Jefferson's  own  copy  —  the  new 
member  wrote  his  celebrated  five  resolutions,  of  this  purport :  Wi 
Englishmen,  living  in  America,  have  all  the  rights  of  Englishmen 
living  in  England  ;  the  chief  of  which  is,  that  we  can  only  l^e  taxed 
by  our  own  representatives ;  and  any  attempt  to  tax  us  otherwise 
menaces  British  liberty  on  both  continents.  In  all  probability,  Jeffer- 
son knew  that  something  of  the  kind  was  intended  on  that  memor- 
able day,  for  he  was  present  in  the  House.  There  was  no  gallery 
then,  nor  any  other  provision  for  spectators ;  but  there  could  be  no 
objection  to  the  friend  and  relative  of  so  many  members  standing  in 
the  doorway  between  the  lobby  and  the  chamber ;  and  there  he  took  his 
stiind.  He  saw  his  tall,  gaunt,  coarsely  attired  guest  rise  in  his  awk- 
ward way,  and  break  with  stammering  tongue  the  silence  which  had 
brooded  over  the  loudest  debates,  as  week  after  week  of  the  session 
had  passed.     He  observed,  and  felt,  too,  the  thrill  which  ran  through 

•  A  celebrated  law  text-book. 


PAETON. 


369 


the  House  at  the  mere  introduction  of  a  subject  with  which  every 
mind  was  surcharged,  and  marked  the  rising  tide  of  feeling  as  the 
reading  of  the  resolutions  went  on,  until  the  climax  of  audacity  was 
reached  in  the  last  chiuse  of  the  last  resolution.  How  moderate,  how 
tame,  the  words  seem  to  us  !  "  Ever)'  attempt  to  invest  such  power 
[of  taxation]  in  any  person  or  persons  whatever,  other  than  the  Gen- 
eral Assembly  aforesaid,  has  a  manifest  tendency  to  destroy  British 
and  American  freedom." 

When  the  reading  was  finished,  JeflFerson  heard  his  friend  utter  the 
opening  sentences  of  his  speech,  with  faltering  tongue  as  usual,  and 
giving  little  promise  of  the  strains  that  were  to  follow.  But  it  was  the 
nature  of  this  great  genius,  as  of  all  genius,  to  rise  to  the  occasion. 
Soon  Jefferson  saw  him  stand  erect,  and,  swinging  free  of  all  impedi- 
ments, launch  into  the  tide  of  his  oration ;  every  eye  captivated  by 
the  large  and  sweeping  grace  of  his  gesticulation,  every  ear  charmed 
with  the  swelling  music  of  his  voice,  every  mind  thrilled  or  stung  by 
the  vivid  epigrams  into  which  he  condensed  his  opinions.  He  never 
had  a  listener  so  formed  to  be  held  captive  by  him  as  the  student  at 
the  lobby  door,  who,  as  a  boy,  had  found  the  oratory  of  the  Indian 
chief  so  impressive,  and  could  not  now  resist  a  slurring  translation  of 
Ossian's  majestic  phrases.  After  the  lapse  of  fifty-nine  years,  Jeffer- 
son still  spoke  of  this  great  day  with  enthusiasm,  and  described  anew 
the  closing  moment  of  Henry's  speech,  when  the  orator,  interrupted 
by  cries  of  treason,  uttered  the  well-known  words  of  defiance,  "  U  this 
be  treason,  make  the  most  of  it !  " 

The  debate  which  followed  Mr.  Henry's  opening  speech  was,  as 
Jefferson  has  recorded,  "  most  bloody."  It  is  impossible  for  a  reader 
of  this  generation  to  conceive  tiie  mixture  of  fondness,  pride,  and 
veneration  with  which  these  colonists  regarded  the  mother  country,  its 
jwrliament  and  king,  its  church  and  its  literature,  and  all  tl»e  glorious 
names  and  events  of  its  history.  Whig  as  Jefferson  was  by  nature  and 
conviction,  he  could  not  give  up  England  as  long  as  there  was  any 
hope  of  a  just  union  with  her.  What,  then,  must  have  been  the  feel- 
ings of  the  Tories  of  the  House,  —  Tories  by  nature  and  by  party,  — 
upon  hearing  this  yeoman  from  the  West  speak  of  the  natural  rights 
of  man  in  the  spirit  of  a  Sidney,  and  use  language  in  reference  to  the 
king  which  sounded  to  them  like  the  prelude  to  an  assassin's  stab  ? 
They  had  to  make  a  stand,  too,  for  their  position  as  leaders  of  the 
House,  unquestioned  for  a  century.  To  the  matter  of  the  resolutions 
16*  X 


O/O  CATHCAKT  S    LITERARY    READER. 

no  one  objected.  All  that  Wythe,  PendU'toii,  Bland,  and  Peyton 
Kandolph  couhl  urge  against  them  was,  that  they  were  unbecominsr 
and  unnecessary.  The  House  had  already  remonstrated  without  effet  i 
and  it  became  a  loyal  people  to  submit.  '*  Torrents  of  sublime  elo- 
quence "  from  Patrick  Henry,  as  Jefferson  observes,  swept  away  their 
arguments,  and  the  resolutions  were  carried ;  the  last  one,  however, 
by  only  n  single  vote. 

Doubtless  the  young  gentlemen  went  home  exulting.  Patrick 
Henry,  unused  to  the  artifices  of  legislation,  and  always  impatient  ot 
detail,  supposing  now  that  the  work  for  which  he  had  come  to  Wil- 
liamsburg was  done,  mounted  that  very  evening  and  rode  away. 
Jefferson,  perhaps,  was  not  too  sure  of  this ;  for  the  next  mornini: 
some  time  before  the  hour  of  meeting,  he  was  again  at  the  Capitol, 
and  in  the  Burgesses*  Chamber.  His  uncle.  Colonel  Peter  Randolph, 
one  of  the  Tory  members,  came  iu,  and,  sitting  down  at  the  clerk's 
table,  began  to  turn  over  the  journals  of  the  House.  He  had  a  dim 
recollection,  he  said,  of  a  resolution  of  the  House,  many  years  ago, 
having  been  expunged!  He  was  trying  to  find  the  record  of  the 
transaction.  He  wanted  a  pn^ccdent.  The  student  of  law  looked 
oyer  his  shoulder,  as  he  turned  the  leaves;  a  group  of  members 
standing  near,  in  trepidation  at  the  thought  of  yesterday's  doings. 
The  House-bell  rang  ;  the  House  convened ;  the  student  resumed  his 
stand  in  the  doorway.  A  motion  was  made  to  expunge  the  last 
resolution  of  yesterday's  series  ;  and,  in  the  absence  of  the  mighty 
orator  whose  eloquence  had  yesterday  made  the  dull  intelligent  and 
the  timid  brave,  the  motion  was  carried,  and  the  resolution  was  ex- 
punged. 

THE  DECLAEATION  OF  Iin)£F£ND£NC£.* 

It  was  on  the  7th  of  June,  1776,  that  Mr.  R.  H.  Lee  obeyed  the  in- 
structions of  the  Virginia  legislature  by  moving  that  Congress  should 
declare  independence.     Two  days'  debate  revealed  that  the  measure, 

*  The  Declaration  of  Independence  was  signed  by  the  Continental  Congress  July  4th,  1776. 
Edward  Everett  said  of  this  great  charter  and  of  Mr.  Jefferson,  its  author :  "  To  liave  been  the 
instrument  of  expressing,  in  one  brief,  decisive  act,  the  concentrated  will  and  resolution  of  a 
whole  family  of  States ;  of  unfolding,  in  one  all-importaut  manifesto,  the  causes,  the  motives, 
and  the  justification  of  this  great  movement  in  human  affairs  -,  to  have  been  pennitted  to  give 
the  impress  and  peculiarity  of  his  own  mind  to  a  charter  of  public  right,  destined  —  or  rather, 
let  me  say,  already  elevated — to  an  importance,  in  the  estimation  of  men,  equal  to  anything 
human,  ever  borne  on  parchment,  or  expressed  in  the  visible  signs  of  thought,  —  this  is  the  glory 
of  Thomas  Jefferson." 


PAJITON.  371 

thou<^h  still  a  little  premature,  was  destined  to  pass ;  and  therefore 
he  further  diseussion  of  the  suhjeet  was  postponed  for  twenty  days, 
iid  a  committee  of  five  was  appointed  to  draught  a  deckration, — 
1  Komas  Jefferson,  Dr.  Franklin,  John  Adams,  Roger  Sherman,  and 
R.  11.  Livingston.  Mr.  Jefferson  was  naturally  urged  to  prepare  the 
draught.  He  was  chairman  of  the  committee,  having  received  the 
liigliest  number  of  votes  ;  he  was  also  its  youngest  member,  and 
therefore  bound  to  do  an  ample  sliare  of  the  work ;  he  was  noted  for 
liis  skill  with  the  pen ;  he  was  particukrly  conversant  with  the  points 
of  the  controversy  ;  he  was  a  Virginian.  The  task,  indeed,  was  not 
very  anluous  or  difficult.  Nothing  was  wanted  but  a  careful  and 
brief  recapitulation  of  wrongs  familiar  to  every  patriotic  mind,  and  a 
dear  statement  of  principles  hackneyed  from  eleven  years'  iteration, 
.lefferson  made  no  difficulty  about  undertaking  it,  and  probably  had 
no  anticipation  of  the  vast  celebrity  that  was  to  follow  so  slight  an 
exercise  of  his  faculties. 

He  was  ready  with  his  draught  in  time.  His  colleagues  upon  the 
( onunittee  suggested  a  few  verbal  changes,  none  of  which  were  ira- 
])()rtant ;  but  during  the  three  days'  discussion  of  it  in  the  House,  it 
was  subjected  to  a  review  so  critical  and  severe,  that  the  author  sat  in 
liis  place  silently  writhing  under  it,  and  Dr.  Franklin  felt  called  upon 
to  console  him  with  the  comic  relation  of  the  process  by  which  the 
sign-board  of  John  Tliompson,  luilter,  makes  and  sells  hats  for  ready 
money ^  was  reduced  to  the  name  of  the  hatter  and  the  figure  of  a  hat. 
Congress  made  eighteen  suppressions,  six  additions,  and  ten  altera- 
tions ;  and  nearly  every  one  of  these  changes  was  an  improvement. 
The  noblest  utterance  of  the  whole  composition  is  the  reason  given 
for  making  the  Dechuration,  —  "a  decent  eespect  foe  the  opin- 
ions OF  MANKIND."  This  touches  the  heart.  Among  the  best  emo- 
tions that  human  nature  knows  is  the  veneration  of  man  for  man. 
This  recognition  of  the  public  opinion  of  the  world,  —  the  sum  of 
human  sense,  —  as  the  final  arbiter  in  all  such  controversies,  is  the 
single  phrase  of  the  document  which  Jefferson  alone,  perhaps,  of  all 
the  Congn^ss,  would  have  originated ;  and,  in  point  of  merit,  it  was 
worth  all  the  rest. 

During  the  2d,  3d,  and  4th  of  July  Congress  were  engaged  in 
reviewing  the  Dechiration.  Thursday,  the  fourth,  was  a  hot  day ; 
the  session  lasted  many  hours ;  members  were  tired  and  impatient. 
Every  one  who  has  watched  the  sessions  of  a  deliberative  body  knows 


372  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

how  the  mo8t  important  measures  are  retarded,  accelerated,  even 
defeated,  by  physical  causes  of  the  most  trifling  nature.  Mr.  King- 
lake  intimates  that  Lord  Ragkn's  invasion  of  the  Crimea  was  due 
rather  to  the  after-dinner  slumbers  of  the  British  Cabinet,  than  to 
any  well-considered  purpose.  Mr.  Jefl^erson  used  to  rekte,  with  much 
merriment,  tliat  the  finid  signing  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
was  hastened  by  an  absurdly  trivial  cause.  Ne^ir  the  hall  in  which 
the  debites  were  then  held  was  a  livery -stable,  from  wliich  swarms  of 
flies  came  into  the  open  windows,  and  assailed  the  silk-stockinged 
legs  of  honorable  members.  Handkerchief  in  hand,  they  lashed  the 
flies  with  such  vigor  as  they  could  command  on  a  July  afternoon ; 
but  the  annoyance  became  at  length  so  extreme  as  to  render  them 
impatient  of  delay,  and  they  made  haste  to  bring  the  momentous 
business  to  a  conclusion. 

After  such  a  long  and  severe  strain  upon  their  minds,  members 
seem  to  have  indulged  in  many  a  jocular  observation  as  they  stood 
around  the  table.  Tradition  has  it,  that  when  John  Hancock  had 
affixed  his  magnificent  signature  to  the  paper,  he  said,  "  There,  John 
Bull  may  read  my  name  without  spectacles  !  " 

No  composition  of  man  was  ever  received  with  more  rapture  than 
this.  It  came  at  a  happy  time.  Boston  was  delivered,  and  New 
York,  as  yet,  but  menaced  ;  and  in  all  New  England  there  was  not  a 
British  soldier  who  was  not  a  prisoner,  nor  a  king's  ship  that  was 
not  a  prize.  Between  the  expulsion  of  the  British  troops  from  Bos- 
ton, and  their  capture  of  New  York,  was  the  period  of  the  Revolu- 
tionary War  when  the  people  were  most  confident  and  most  united. 
From  the  newspapers  and  letters  of  the  times,  we  should  infer  that  the 
contest  was  ending  rather  than  beginning,  so  exultant  is  their  tone ; 
and  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  therefore,  was  received  more 
like  a  song  of  triumph  than  a  call  to  battle. 

The  paper  was  signed  late  on  Thursday  afternoon,  July  4.  On 
the  Monday  following,  at  noon,  it  was  publicly  read  for  the  first  time, 
in  Independence  Square,  from  a  platform  erected  by  Rittenhouse  for 
the  purpose  of  observing  the  transit  of  Venus.  Captain  John  Hop- 
kins, a  young  man  commanding  an  armed  brig  of  the  navy  of  the 
new  nation,  was  the  reader ;  and  it  required  his  stentorian  voice  to 
carry  the  words  to  the  distant  verge  of  tlie  multitude  who  had  come 
to  hear  it.  In  the  evening,  as  a  journal  of  the  day  has  it,  "  our  late 
king's  coat-of-arms  were  brought  from  the  hall  of  the  State  House, 


PAKTON.  873 

where  the  said  king's  courts  were  formerly  held,  and  burned  amid 
the  acclamations  of  a  crowd  of  spectators."  Similar  scenes  transpired 
in  every  center  of  population,  and  at  every  camp  and  post.  Usually 
the  militia  compjinies,  the  committee  of  safety,  and  other  revolutionary 
Ixxlies,  marched  in  procession  to  some  public  place,  where  they  lis- 
tened decorously  to  the  read  in  j^  of  the  Declaration,  at  the  conclusion 
of  which  cheers  were  given  and  salutes  fired;  and,  in  the  evening, 
there  were  illuminations  and  bonfires.  In  New  York,  after  the 
reading,  the  leatlen  statue  of  the  late  king  in  Bowling  Green  was 
"  laid  prostrate  in  the  dirt,"  and  ordered  to  l)e  run  into  bullets.  The 
debtors  in  prison  were  also  set  at  liberty.  Virginia,  before  the  news 
of  the  Declaration  had  reached  her  (July  5,  1776),  had  stricken  the 
king's  name  out  of  the  prayer-book ;  and  now  (July  30),  Rhode 
Island  made  it  a  misdemeanor  to  pray  for  tlie  king  as  king,  under 
penalty  of  a  fine  of  one  hundred  thousand  pounds ! 

The  news  of  the  Declaration  was  received  with  sorrow  by  all  that 
was  best  in  England.  Samuel  Rogers  used  to  give  American  guests 
at  his  breakfasts  an  interesting  reminiscence  of  this  period.  On  the 
morning  after  the  intelligence  reached  London,  his  father,  at  family 
prayers,  addiKl  a  prayer  for  the  success  of  the  colonies,  which  he 
repeated  every  day  until  the  peace. 

The  deed  was  done.  A  people  not  formed  for  empire  ceased  to 
be  imperial ;  and  a  people  destined  to  empire  began  the  political  edu- 
cation that  will  one  day  give  them  far  more  and  better  than  imperial 
sway. 


iil4t  CATilCAKTS    LlTJ::iiARY    KEADEK. 

JEAN  INGELOW. 

1825- 

Jbav  IlfOELOW  was  bora  in  England  about  1825.  Little  is  known  of  her  prirate  life,  which 
has  beai  very  retired;  but  her  name  has  become  familiar  and  beloved  throughout  the  English- 
■peaking  world.  Her  first  important  hterary  essay  was  a  volume  of  poems  published  in  £ug- 
land  in  18<13,  and  immediately  reprinted  in  this  country,  where  it  was  reeeired  with  such  favor 
as  is  rarely  accorded  to  a  book  of  Terse.  It  has  been  followed  by  two  or  three  volumes  of  poems, 
which  have  been  less  popular  than  the  author's  first  venture,  for  the  reason,  perhaps,  that  they 
have  dealt  with  more  ambitious  themes.  In  prose,  Miss  Ingclow  has  written  little,  but  very 
welL  Her  Stud'utfor  Stories  is  one  vS  the  best  collections  of  stories  for  children  in  print,  and 
foor  MtU  if  a  tale  of  singular  beauty,  though,  perhaps,  too  sad.  In  1872  she  produced  her 
lint  Bord,  Of  tlU  SkelUgt,  which,  however  fculty  in  artistic  respects,  in  purity  of  sentiment, 
•ad  flwtahTas  and  wbolesomeness  of  atmosphere,  has  hardly  been  sorpaaaed  in  modera  literature. 
Bat  poetry  is  evidently  this  author's  forU .-  there  is  a  simple  sweetness,  an  earaest  goodness,  in 
her  verse  which  is  irresistibly  winning,  and  which  appeals  powerfully  to  the  hearts  of  the  people. 
While  her  general  mood  is  calmly  contemplative,  Tkt  High  TUt  and  a  few  other  poems  prove 
of  a  high  degree  of  dnunatic  vigor. 


SEVEN  TIMES   ONE. 

There  *s  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover, 

There  *s  no  rain  left  in  heaven. 
I  *ve  said  my  "  seven  times  "  over  and  over,  — 

Seven  times  one  are  seven. 

I  am  old,  —  so  old  I  can  write  a  letter ; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done. 
The  lambs  play  always,  —  they  know  no  better ; 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 

0  Moon  !  in  the  night  I  have  seen  you  sailing 
And  shining  so  round  and  low. 

You  were  bright  —  ah,  bright  —  but  your  light  is  failing 
You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 

You  Moon  !  have  you  done  something  Avrong  in  heaven, 
That  God  has  hidden  your  face  ? 

1  hope,  if  you  have,  you  will  soon  be  forgiven. 

And  shine  again  in  your  place. 

O  velvet  Bee  !  you  're  a  dusty  fellow,  — 

You  Ve  powdered  your  legs  with  gold. 
O  brave  marsh  Mary -buds,  rich  and  yellow. 

Give  me  vour  monev  to  hold  ! 


JEAN   INGE  LOW.  376 

O  Columbine !  open  your  folded  wrapper, 
Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell ! 

0  Cuckoo-pint !  toll  me  the  purple  clapper 
That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell ! 

And  show  me  your  nest,  with  the  young  ones  in  it,  — 
I  will  not  steal  them  away  : 

1  am  old  !  you  may  trust  me,  linnet,  linnet ! 

I  am  seven  times  one  to-day. 

A  MAIDEN  WITH  A  MILKINO-FAIL. 


What  change  has  made  the  pastures  sweet. 
And  reached  the  daisies  at  my  feet, 

And  cloud  that  wears  a  golden  hem  ? 
This  lovely  world,  the  hills,  the  sward, — 
Tlicy  all  look  fresh,  as  if  our  Lord 

But  yesterday  had  finished  them. 

And  here  's  the  field  with  light  aglow : 
How  fresh  its  boundary  lime-trees  show ! 

And  how  its  wet  leaves  trembling  shine  ! 
Between  their  trunks  come  through  to  me 
The  moniing  sparkles  of  the  sea. 

Below  the  level  browsing  line. 

I  see  the  pool,  more  dear  by  half 
Than  pools  where  other  waters  laugh 

Up  at  the  breasts  of  coot  and  rail. 
There,  as  she  passed  it  on  her  way, 
I  saw  reflected  yestenlay 

A  maiden  with  a  milking-pail. 

There,  neither  slowly  nor  in  haste,  — 
One  hand  upon  her  slender  waist, 

The  other  lifted  to  her  pail,  — 
She,  rosy  in  the  morning  light, 
Among  the  water-daisies  white. 

Like  some  fair  sloop  appejired  to  sail. 


376  CATHC art's  literary  reader. 

Against  her  ankles  as  she  trod 
The  lucky  buttercups  did  nod  : 

I  leaned  upon  the  ^ate  to  see. 
The  sweet  thing  looked,  but  did  not  speak ; 
A  dimple  came  in  either  cheek, 

And  all  my  heart  was  gone  from  me. 

Then,  as  I  lingered  on  the  gate, 
And  she  came  up  like  coming  fate, 

I  saw  my  picture  in  her  eyes,  — 
Clear  dancing  eyes,  more  black  than  sloes  ! 
Cheeks  like  the  mountain  pink,  that  grows 

Among  white-headed  majesties ! 

I  said,  "  A  tale  was  made  of  old 
That  1  would  fain  to  thee  unfold. 

Ah  !  let  me,  —  let  me  tell  the  tale." 
But  high  she  held  her  comely  head : 
"  I  cannot  heed  it  now,"  she  said, 

"  For  carrying  of  the  milking-pail." 

She  laughed.     What  good  to  make  ado  ? 
I  held  the  gate,  and  she  came  through, 

And  took  her  homeward  path  anon. 
From  the  clear  pool  her  face  had  fled ; 
It  rested  on  my  heart  instead, 

Reflected  when  the  maid  was  gone. 

With  happy  youth,  and  work  content, 
So  sweet  and  stately,  on  she  went. 

Right  careless  of  the  untold  tale. 
Each  step  she  took  I  loved  her  more, 
And  followed  to  her  dair\'  door 

The  maiden  with  the  milking-pail. 

II. 

For  hearts  where  wakened  love  doth  lurk, 
How  fine,  how  blest  a  thing  is  work ! 
For  work  does  good  when  reasons  fail,  — 


JEAN    INGBLOW.  377 

Good ;  yet  the  ax  at  every  stroke 
Tlie  echo  of  a  name  awoke,  — 
Her  iiame  is  Mary  Martiiidale. 

I  *m  glad  that  echo  was  not  heard 
Aright  by  other  men.     A  bird 

Knows  doubtless  wliat  liis  own  notes  tell ; 
And  I  know  not,  —  but  1  can  say 
I  felt  as  shamefaa;d  all  that  day 

As  if  folks  heard  her  name  right  well. 

And  when  the  west  began  to  glow 

I  went  —  I  could  not  choose  but  go  — 

To  that  same  dairy  on  the  hill ; 
And  while  sweet  Mai-y  moved  about 
Within,  I  came  to  her  without, 

Aud  leaned  upon  the  window-sill. 

The  garden  border  where  1  stood 

Was  sweet  with  pinks  aud  southernwood. 

I  spoke,  —  her  answer  seemed  to  fail. 
I  smelt  the  pinks,  —  I  could  not  see. 
The  dusk  came  down  and  sheltered  me. 

And  in  the  dusk  she  heard  my  tale. 

And  what  is  left  that  I  should  tell  ? 
I  begged  a  kiss,  —  I  pleadwl  well : 

The  rosebud  lips  did  long  decline ; 
But  yet,  I  think  —  I  think  *t  is  true  — 
Tliat,  leaned  at  last  into  the  <Iew, 

One  little  instant  they  were  mine ! 

O  life !  how  dear  thou  hast  IxH^ome  ! 
She  laughed  at  dawn,  and  I  was  dumb ! 

But  evening  counsels  best  prevail. 
Fair  shine  the  blue  that  o'er  her  spreads, 
Gn*en  be  the  pastures  wlicn;  she  treads. 

The  maiden  with  tlie  milking-pail  1 


378  cathcaet's  litbkakt  header. 

BAYAED   TAYLOE. 

1825- 

Batako  Tatlob,  fiuBooB  M  A  tiBTckr,  WM  ton  u  KeuKti  SipHr^  CTwrtw  Coonty.  PMib- 
•jrlvania.  in  January,  19SL  At  Um  afs  of  •eTntoai  ha  keeaaB  m  afpmtke  ia  a  priatii^- 
oOoe }  but  Mxia  gioaiag  weary  of  tike  dradgery  of  his  calliag,  he  act  oat  oa  a  tour  of  Europe, 
when  he  trardcd  two  year*  at  a  coat  of  only  Art  himdred  doUan.  The  story  of  this  journey, 
pnUiahed  ia  a  Tofauae  entitled  Fmn  AfoUy  at  onee  fare  the  aathor  an  enviable  place  in  litera- 
tnrc  After  a  brief  reaideace  ia  ^aiasylvaaia  and  New  York,  where  he  was  engaged  in  jour- 
nalism. Mr.  Taylor  irsaaiTit  hi*  wanderings,  and  traveled  extensively  in  California,  Mexico, 
Earope,  Aaia.  and  Africa.  Ia  IMS  he  was  appointed  Secretary  of  the  Uaited  SUtcs  Lcgatioa  at 
8t  Peienbatf.  The  liat  of  thia  author's  booka  ia  too  long  to  be  printed eatire;  it iadndes 
icoMda  of  traTd,  poena,  Bords,  etc.  Of  thektter,  n«  Storjr  ^reiiarff,  a  pictoreof  lifeia  hia 
native  region,  is  perhaps  the  best.  His  latest  work  is  a  traaalatioa  of  Goethe's  Am/  eom- 
plete.  Mr.  Taylor  married,  in  18M,  Marie,  daa^ter  of  Profesamr  Hansen,  the  distinguished 
GcranB  aatronoaser  recently  dcccaaed,  and  nice  that  data  has  lived  mataly  abroad.  His  hight « 
I  aothorah^  has  been  in  hooka  of  tntd ;  his  qnaliflcations  for  the  work  which  tli< 
are  exe^tionaUy  good ;  ha  haa  a  opMled  and  fomiaf  style,  and  a  han>y  ^oity  ot 
itiactloa.    The  cxtiaela  are  fkoai  fifmr  4^iio<. 

A  DAT  IN  LOKDOH. 

After  breakfast,  on  the  first  day,  we  set  out  for  a  walk  through 
London.  Entering  the  main  artery  of  tliis  mighty  city,  we  passwl 
on,  through  AUlgatc  and  Comhill,  to  St.  Paul's,  with  still  increasing 
wonder.  Farther  on,  through  Fleet  Street  and  the  Strand,  —  what  a 
worltl !  litre  come  the  ever-thronging,  ever-rolling  waves  of  life,  press- 
ing and  whirling  on  in  their  tumultuous  career.  Here,  day  and  night, 
pours  the  stream  of  human  beings,  seeming,  amid  the  roar  and  din 
and  clatter  of  the  passing  vehicles,  like  the  tide  of  some  great  comlwt. 
How  lonely  it  makes  one  to  stand  still  and  feel  that  of  all  the  miglity 
throng  which  divides  itself  around  him,  not  a  being  knows  or  cares 
for  him  !  What  knows,  he  too,  of  the  thousands  who  pass  him  by  ! 
How  many  who  l)ear  the  impress  of  godlike  virtue,  or  hide  beneath 
a  goodly  countenance  a  heart  black  with  crime!  How  many  fiery 
spirits,  all  glowing  with  hope  for  the  yet  unclouded  future,  or  brood- 
ing over  a  darkened  and  desolate  past  in  the  agony  of  despair ! 
There  is  a  sublimity  in  this  human  Niagara  that  makes  one  look  on 
his  own  race  with  something  of  awe. 

St.  Paul's  is  on  a  scale  of  grandeur  excelling  everything  I  have  yet 
seen.  The  dome  seems  to  stand  in  the  sky,  as  you  look  up  to  it ; 
the  distance  from  which  you  view  it,  combined  with  the  atmosphere 
of  London,  gives  it  a  dim,  shadowy  appearance,  that  startles  one  with 


BAYARD   TAYLOE.  379 

its  immensity.  Tlie  roof  from  which  the  dome  springs  is  itself  as 
high  as  the  spires  of  most. other  churches;  blackenetl  for  two  hun- 
(In'd  years  with  the  roal-smoke  of  London,  it  stands  like  a  relic  of  the 
giant  architecture  of  the  early  world.  The  interior  is  what  one  would 
expect  to  l)ehohl,  after  viewing  the  outside.  A  niuze  of  grand  arches 
on  every  side  encompasses  the  dome,  at  which  you  gaze  up  as  at  the 
sky  ;  and  from  every  pillar  and  wall  look  down  the  marble  forms  of 
the  dead.  There  is  scarcely  a  vacant  niche  left  in  all  this  mighty 
hall,  so  many  are  the  statues  that  meet  one  on  every  side.  With  the 
exception  of  John  Howard,  Sir  Astley  Cooper,  and  Wren,  whose 
monument  is  the  church  itself,  they  are  all  to  military  men.  I 
thought  if  they  had  all  been  removed  except  Howard's,  it  would 
better  have  suited  such  a  temple,  and  the  great  soul  it  commemo- 
rated. 

I  never  was  more  impressed  with  the  grandeur  of  human  invention, 
than  when  ascending  the  dome.  I  could  with  difficulty  conceive  the 
means  by  which  such  a  mighty  edifice  had  been  lifted  into  the  air. 
The  small  frame  of  Sir  Christopher  Wren  must  have  contained  a  mind 
capable  of  vast  conceptions.  The  dome  is  like  the  summit  of  a 
mountani ;  so  M-ide  is  the  prospect,  and  so  great  the  pile  upon  which 
you  stanil,  London  lay  beneath  us,  like  an  ant-hill,  with  the  black 
insects  swarming  to  and  fro  in  their  long  avenues,  the  sound  of  their 
employments  coming  up  like  the  roar  of  the  sea.  A  cloud  of  coal- 
smoke  hung  over  it,  through  which  many  a  pointed  spire  was  thrust 
up ;  sometimes  the  wind  would  blow  it  aside  for  a  moment,  and  the 
thousands  of  red  roofs  would  shine  out  clearer.  The  bridged  Thames, 
covered  with  craft  of  all  sizes,  wound  beneath  us  like  a  ringed  and 
spotted  serpent. 

It  was  a  relief  to  get  into  St.  James's  Park,  among  the  trees  and 
flowers  again.  Here  l)eautiful  winding  walks  led  around  little  lakes, 
in  which  were  hiuidreds  of  waterfowl,  swimming.  Groups  of  merry 
children  were  sporting  on  the  green  lawn,  enjoying  their  privilege  of 
roaming  ever\- where  at  will,  while  the  older  bipeds  were  confined  to 
the  regular  walks.  At  the  western  end  stood  Buckingham  Palace, 
looking  over  the  trees  towards  St.  Paul's  ;  and  through  the  grove, 
on  the  eminence  alx)ve.  the  towers  of  St.  James's  could  be  seen.  But 
there  was  a  dim  building  with  two  lofty  square  towers,  deeorate<l 
with  a  profusion  of  point«'d  Gothic  pinnacles,  that  I  looked  at  with 
more  interest  than  these  appendages  of  royalty.     I  couhl  not  linger 


S80  CATHCABT^S    LITEEARY   READER. 

long  in  its  vicinity,  but,  going  back  again  by  the  Horse  Guards,  took 
the  road  to  fTestnuM^ter  Abbejf. 

Wc  approached  by  the  general  entrance,  Poet's  Conu  r.  1  liardly 
stopped  to  look  at  the  elaborate  exterior  of  Henry  the  Seventh's 
Cliaptl,  but  passed  on  to  the  door.  On  entering,  the  tirst  thing  that 
met  ray  eyes  were  the  words  ''  Ou  rab£  Ben  JoNbON,"  under  his 
bust.  Near  by  stood  the  monuments  of  Spenser  and  Gray,  and  a  few 
paces  farther  looked  down  the  sublime  countenance  of  Milton.  Never 
was  a  spot  so  full  of  intense  interest.  The  light  was  just  dim  enough 
to  give  it  a  solemn,  religious  air,  making  the  marble  forms  of  poets  and 
philosophers  so  shadowy  and  impressive  that  1  felt  as  if  standing  in 
their  living  presence.  Every  step  called  up  some  mind  linked  with 
the  associations  of  my  childhood.  There  was  the  gentle  feminine 
countenance  of  Thomson,  and  the  majestic  head  of  Dr)'den  ;  Addison 
with  his  classic  features,  and  Gr»:y,  full  of  the  fire  of  lofty  thouglit. 
In  another  chamber,  I  paused  long  before  the  tablet  to  Shakespeare  ; 
and  while  looking  at  the  monument  of  Garrick,  started  to  find  thit  I 
stood  upon  his  grave.  What  a  glorious  galaxy  of  genius  is  here  col- 
lected, —  what  a  constellation  of  stcrs  whose  light  is  immortal !  The 
mind  is  fettered  by  their  spirit,  everything  is  forgotten  but  the  mighty 
dead,  who  still  *'  rule  us  from  their  urns." 

The  side-chapels  are  filled  with  tombs  of  knightly  families,  the 
husband  and  wife  lying  on  their  backs  on  the  tombs,  with  their  hands 
clas})ed,  while  their  children,  about  the  size  of  dolls,  are  kneeling 
around.  Numberless  are  the  Barons  and  Earls  and  Dukes,  whose 
grim  effigies  stare  from  their  tombs.  In  opposite  chapels  are  the 
tombs  of  Mary  and  Elizabeth,  and  near  the  former  that  of  Daniley. 
After  having  visited  many  of  the  scenes  of  her  life,  it  was  with  no 
ordinary  emotion  that  I  stood  by  the  sepnlcher  of  Mar}'.  How  dif- 
ferently one  looks  upon  it  and  upon  that  of  the  proud  Elizabeth ! 

We  descended  to  the  Chapel  of  Edwanl  the  Confessor,  within  the 
splendid  shrine  of  which  his  ashes  repose.  Here  the  chair  on  which 
the  English  monarchs  have  l)een  crowned  for  several  hundred  years  was 
exhibited.  lender  the  seat  is  the  stone,  brought  from  the  Abbey  of 
Scone,  whereon  tlie  Kings  of  Scotland  were  crowned.  The  chair  is 
of  oak,  carved  and  hacked  over  with  names,  and  on  the  bottom  some 
one  has  recorded  his  name  with  the  fact  that  he  once  slept  in  it.  We 
sat  down  and  rested  in  it  without  ceremony.  Near  this  is  the  hall 
where  the  Knisrhts  of  the  Order  of  the  Bath  met.     Over  each  seat 


BAYARD   TAYLOE.  381 

their  dusty  banners  are  still  hanging,  each  with  its  crest,  and  their 
amior  is  rusting  upon  the  wall.  It  resembled  a  banquetiug-hall  of  the 
olden  time,  where  the  knights  had  left  their  seats  for  a  moment 
vacant.  Entering  the  nave,  we  were  lost  in  the  wilderness  of  sculp- 
ture. Here  stood  the  forms  of  Pitt,  Fox,  Burke,  Sheridan,  and  Watts, 
from  the  chisels  of  (Jliantrey,  Bacon,  and  Westmacott.  Farther  down 
were  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  and  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller,  —  opposite  Andre, 
and  Paoli,  the  Italian,  who  died  here  in  exile.  How  can  I  convey  an 
idea  of  the  scene  !  Notwithstanding  all  the  descriptions  I  had  read, 
I  was  totally  unprepared  for  the  reality,  nor  could  I  have  antieipattd 
the  hushed  and  breathless  interest  with  which  I  paced  the  dim  aisles, 
gazing,  at  every  step,  on  the  last  resting-place  of  some  great  and  fa- 
miliar numc.  A  place  so  sacred  to  all  who  inherit  the  English  tongue 
is  worthy  of  a  special  pilgrimage  across  the  deep.  To  those  who  are 
unable  to  visit  it  a  description  may  be  interesting  ;  but  so  far  does  it 
fall  short  of  the  scene  itself,  that  if  I  thought  it  would  induce  a  few 
of  our  wealthy  idlers,  or  even  those  who,  like  myself,  must  travel 
with  toil  and  privation,  to  come  hither,  I  would  write  till  the  pni 
dropped  from  my  hand. 

We  walked  down  the  Thames  through  the  nan*ow  streets  of  Wap- 
ping.  Over  the  mouth  of  the  Tunnel  is  a  large  circular  building, 
with  a  dome  to  light  the  entrance  below.  Paying  a  fee  of  a  penny, 
we  descended  by  a  winding  staircase  to  the  bottom,  which  is  seventy- 
three  feet  below  the  surface.  The  carriage-way,  still  unfinished,  will 
extend  farther  into  the  city.  From  the  bottom  the  view  of  thtrtwo 
arches  of  the  Tunnel,  brilliantly  lighted  with  gas,  is  very  fine ;  it  has 
a  much  less  heavy  and  gloomy  appeanince  than  I  expected.  As  we 
walked  along  under  the  bed  of  the  river,  two  or  three  girls  at  one 
end  began  playing  on  the  French  horn  and  bugle,  and  the  echoes, 
when  not  sufficient  to  confuse  the  melcMly,  were  remarkably  beautiful. 
iJetwetm  the  arches  of  the  division  separating  the  two  passages  are 
siiops,  occupied  by  venders  of  fancy  articles,  views  of  the  Tunnel,  en- 
gravings, etc.  In  the  middle  is  a  small  printing-press,  where  a  sheet 
containing  a  description  of  the  whole  work  is  printe<l  for  those  who 
desire  it.  As  I  was  no  stranger  to  this  art,  I  requested  the  boy  to 
let  me  print  one  myself,  Imt  he  hatl  such  a  bad  roller  I  did  not 
sueeeed  in  getting  a  good  impression.  The  air  within  is  somewhat 
(lamp,  but  fn'sh  and  agreeably  cool,  and  one  can  scarcely  realize,  in 
walking  along  the  light  passage;,  that  a  river  is  rolling  above  his  head. 


88E  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

The  immense  solidity  and  compactness  of  the  structure  precludes 
the  danj^er  of  accident,  each  of  the  sides  beiiij^  arched  outwards,  so 
that  the  heaviest  pressure  only  strengthens  the  work.  It  will  long 
remain  a  noble  monument  of  human  daring  and  ingenuity. 

IBiOKE  AKB  ST.  FETEE  S. 

One  day's  walk  through  Rome,  —  how  shall  I  describe  it  ?  The 
Capitol,  the  Forum,  St.  Peter's,  the  Coliseum,  —  what  few  hours' 
ramble  ever  took  in  places  so  hallowed  by  poetry,  history,  and  art  ? 
It  was  a  goUlen  leaf  in  my  calendar  of  life.  In  thinking  over  it  now, 
and  drawing  out  the  threads  of  recollection  from  the  varied  web  of 
thought  I  have  woven  to-day,  I  almost  wonder  how  I  dared  so  much 
at  once;  but  within  reach  of  them  all,  how  was  it  possible  to  wait? 
Let  me  give  a  sketch  of  our  day's  ramble. 

Hearing  that  it  was  better  to  visit  the  ruins  by  evening  or  moon- 
light (alas !  there  is  no  moon  now),  we  set  out  to  hunt  St.  Peter's. 
Going  in  the  direction  of  the  Corso,  we  passed  the  ruined  front  of  the 
magnificent  Temple  of  Antoninus,  now  used  as  the  Papd  Custom 
House.  We  tunied  to  the  right  on  entering  the  Corso,  expecting  to 
have  a  view  of  the  city  from  the  hill  at  its  southern  end.  It  is  a  mag* 
nificent  street,  lined  with  palaces  and  splendid  edifices  of  every  kind, 
and  always  filled  with  crowds  of  carriages  and  people.  On  leaving  it, 
however,  we  became  bewildered  among  the  narrow  streets,  —  passed 
through  a  market  of  vegetables,  crowded  with  beggars  and  contadiniy 
—  threaded  many  by-ways  between  dark  old  buildings,  —  saw  one  or 
two  antique  fountains  and  many  modern  churches,  and  finally  arrived 
at  a  hill. 

We  ascended  many  steps,  and  then,  descending  a  little  towards  the 
other  side,  saw  suddenly  below  us  the  Roman  Forum  !  I  knew  it  at 
once,  —  and  those  three  Corinthian  columns  that  stood  near  us,  — 
what  could  they  be  but  the  remains  of  the  temple  of  Jupiter  Stator  ? 
We  stood  on  the  Capitoline  Hill ;  at  the  foot  was  the  Arch  of  Sep- 
timius  Severus,  brown  with  age  and  shattered  ;  near  it  stood  the 
majestic  front  of  the  Temple  of  Fortune,  its  pillars  of  polished  granite 
glistening  in  the  sun,  as  if  they  had  been  erected  yesterday,  while  on 
the  left  the  rank  grass  was  waving  from  the  arches  and  mighty  walls 
of  the  Palace  of  the  Caesars !  In  front  ruin  upon  ruin  lined  the  way 
for  half  a  mile,  where  the  Coliseum  towered  grandly  through  the  blue 


BAYARD   TAYLOR.  383 

morning  mist,  at  the  base  of  the  Esquiline  Hill!  Good  heavens, 
what  a  scene !  Grandeur,  such  as  the  world  has  never  since  beheld, 
once  rose  through  that  blue  atmosphere  ;  splendor  inconceivable,  the 
spoils  of  a  world,  the  triumphs  of  a  thousand  armies,  had  passed  over 
that  earth;  minds  which  for  ages  moved  the  ancient  world  liad 
thought  there ;  and  words  of  power  and  glory  from  the  lips  of  im- 
mortal men  had  been  syllabled  on  that  hallowed  air.  To  call  back 
all  this  on  the  very  spot,  while  the  wreck  of  what  once  was  rose 
inoldering  and  desolate  around,  kindled  a  glow  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing too  j)owerful  for  words. 

Il«'turning  at  hazard  through  the  streets,  we  came  suddenly  upon 
the  column  of  Trajan,  standing  in  an  excavated  square  below  the  level 
of  the  city,  amid  a  number  of  broken  granite  columns,  which  formed 
part  of  the  Forum  dedicated  to  him  by  Rome,  after  the  conquest  of 
Dacia.  The  column  is  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  feet  high,  and 
entirely  covered  with  bas-reliefs  representing  his  victories,  winding 
alK)ut  it  in  a  spiral  line  to  the  top.  The  number  of  figures  is  com- 
puted at  two  thousand  five  hundred,  and  they  were  of  such  excellence 
that  Kiiphael  used  many  of  them  for  his  models.  They  are  now  much 
defaced,  and  the  column  is  surmounted  by  a  statue  of  some  saint. 
The  inscription  on  the  pedestiil  has  been  erased,  and  the  name  of 
Sixtus  V.  substituted.  Nothing  can  exceed  the  ridiculous  vanity  of 
the  old  popes  in  thus  mutilating  the  finest  monuments  of  ancient  art. 
You  cannot  look  upon  any  relic  of  antiquity  in  Rome,  but  your  eyes 
are  assailed  by  the  words  "  Poxtifex  Maximus,"  in  staring  modem 
letters.  Even  the  magnificent  bronzes  of  the  Pantheon  were  stripped 
to  make  the  Iwldachin  under  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's. 

Finding  our  way  back  again,  we  took  a  fresh  start,  happily  in  the 
right  direction,  and  after  walking  some  time  came  out  on  the  Tiber, 
at  the  Bridge  of  St.  Angclo.  Tlie  river  rolled  lielow  in  his  muddy 
•rlory,  and  in  front,  on  the  opposite  l)ank,  stood  "  the  pile  which 
Hadrian  reared  on  high,"  —  notOy  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo.  Know- 
ing tliat  St.  Peter's  was  to  be  seen  from  this  bridge,  I  looked  about 
in  search  of  it.  There  was  only  one  dome  in  sight,  large  and  of  ]x»u- 
tiful  proportions.  I  said  at  once,  "Surely  that  cannot  be  St.  Peter's  !  " 
On  looking  again,  however.  T  saw  the  top  of  a  massive  range  of  build- 
ing near  it,  which  corn*sponded  so  nearly  with  the  piclnn's  of  the 
Vatican  that  I  was  unwillingly  forced  to  Mieve  the  mighty  dome 
was  really  before  me.     I  recognized  it  as  one  of  those  we  had  seen 


384  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

from  the  Capitol,  but  it  appeared  so  much  smaller  when  viewed  from 
a    greater  distauce  tliat  1  was  quite  deceived.     Ou  considering  ^^ 
were  still  three  fourths  of  a  mile  from  it,  and  that  we  could  see  i 
minutest  parts  distinctly,  the  illusion  was  explained. 

Goiug  directly  down  the  Borgo  Vecchio,  it  seemed  a  long  time 
before  we  arrived  at  the  square  of  St.  Peter's ;  and  when  at  Itngth 
we  stood  in  front,  with  the  majestic  colonnade  sweeping  around,  the 
fountains  on  each  side  sending  up  their  showers  of  silvery  spray, 
the  mighty  obelisk  of  Egyptian  granite  piercing  the  sky,  and  beyond, 
the  grciit  facade  and  dome  of  the  Cathedral,  I  confessed  my  un- 
mingled  admiration.  It  readied  to  my  mind  the  grandeur  ol 
ancient  Rome,  and  mighty  as  her  edifices  must  have  been,  I  doubt 
if  she  could  boast  many  views  more  overpowering  tluin  this.  The 
facade  of  St.  Peter's  seemed  close  to  us,  but  it  was  a  third  of  a  nn 
disUint,  and  the  people  ascending  the  steps  dwindled  to  pygmies. 

I  passed  the  obelisk,  went  up  the  long  ascent,  crossed  the  portii 
pushed  aside  the  heavy  leatheni  curtain  at  the  entrance,  and  stood  in 
the  great  nave.  I  need  not  describe  my  feelings  at  the  sight,  but  I 
will  give  the  dimensions,  and  the  reader  may  then  fancy  what  tli(\ 
were.  Before  me  was  a  marble  plain  six  hundred  feet  long,  and 
under  the  cross  four  hundred  and  st?ventecn  feet  wide !  One  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  above  sprang  a  glorious  arch,  dazzling  with  iidaid  gold. 
and  in  the  center  of  the  cross  there  were  four  hundred  feet  of  air 
between  me  and  the  top  of  the  dome !  The  sunbeam,  stealing  through 
the  lofty  window  at  one  end  of  the  transept,  made  a  bar  of  light  on  thr 
blue  air,  hazy  with  incense,  one  tenth  of  a  mile  long,  before  it  fell  on 
the  mosaics  and  gilded  shrines  of  the  other  extremity.  The  grand 
cupola  alone,  including  lantern  and  cross,  is  two  hundred  and  eighty- 
five  feet  high,  or  sixty  feet  higher  than  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument,  and 
the  four  immense  pillars  ou  which  it  rests  are  each  one  hundred  and 
thirty-seven  feet  in  circumference !  It  seems  as  if  human  art  had  out- 
done itself  in  producing  this  temple,  —  the  grandest  which  the  world 
ever  erected  for  the  worship  of  the  Living  Grod !  The  awe  I  felt  in 
looking  up  at  the  colossal  arch  of  marble  and  gold  did  not  humble  me ; 
ou  the  contrary,  I  felt  exalted,  ennobled  ;  beings  in  the  form  I  wore 
planned  the  glorious  edifice,  and  it  seemed  that,  in  godlike  power  and 
perseverance,  they  were  indeed  but  a  little  lower  than  the  angels.  I 
felt  that,  if  fallen,  my  race  was  still  mighty  and  immortal. 

The  Vatican   is  only  open   twice  a  week,  on  days   which  are  not 


BAYARD   TAYLOR.  885 

feitdJi ;  inosl  fortunately,  to-day  happened  to  be  one  of  these,  and  we 
took  a  run  tlirou«,'li  its  endless  halls.  The  extent  and  magnificence 
of  the  ^'alliry  of  sculpture  is  amazing.  The  halls,  which  are  filled  to 
ovi'rtlowing  with  the  finest  works  of  ancient  art,  would,  if  placed  side 
by  side,  make  a  row  more  than  two  miles  in  length  !  You  enter  at 
once  into  a  hall  of  marble,  with  a  magnificent  arched  ceiling,  a  third 
of  a  mile  long ;  the  sides  are  covered  for  a  great  distance  with  Roman 
inscriptiojis  of  every  kind,  divided  into  compartments  according  to 
the  era  of  the  empire  to  which  they  refer.  One  which  I  examined 
appeared  to  be  a  kind  of  index  of  the  roads  in  Italy,  with  the  towns 
on  them;  and  we  could  decipher,  on  tliat  time-w'-orn  block,  the  V(;ry 
route  we  had  followed  from  Florence  hither. 

Then  came  the  statues,  and  here  I  am  bewildered  how  to  (lescribe 
them.  Hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  figures,  —  sUitues  of  citizens,  gen- 
erals, emperors,  and  gods,  —  fauns,  satyrs,  and  nymphs,  —  children, 
Cupids,  and  Tritons ;  in  fact,  they  seemed  inexhaustible.  Many  of 
them,  too,  were  forms  of  matchless  beauty  ;  there  were  Venuses  and 
nymphs,  born  of  the  loftiest  dreams  of  grace ;  fuuns  on  whose  faces 
shone  the  very  soul  of  humor,  and  heroes  and  divinities  Avith  an  air  of 
majesty  worthy  the  "  land  of  lost  gods  and  godlike  men"  ! 

I  am  lost  in  astonishment  at  the  perfection  of  art  attained  by  the 
Greeks  and  Romans.  There  is  scarcely  a  form  of  beauty,  that  has 
ever  met  my  eye,  which  is  not  to  be  found  in  this  gdlery.  I  should 
almost  despair  of  such  another  bhize  of  glory  on  the  world,  were  it 
not  my  devout  belief  that  what  has  Ikxmi  done  may  be  done  again,  and 
had  I  not  faith  that  the  dawn  in  which  we  live  will  bring  on  another 
day  equidly  glorious.  And  why  should  not  America,  with  the  experi- 
enct;  and  added  wisdom  which  three  thousand  years  have  slowly 
yielded  to  the  old  world,  joined  to  the  giant  energy  of  her  youth  and 
freedom,  re-bestow  on  the  world  the  divine  creations  of  Art  ? 

But  let  us  step  on  to  the  hemieycle  of  the  Belvedere,  aud  view  some 
works  greater  than  any  we  have  yet  seen,  or  even  imagined.  The 
adjoining  gallcrj'  is  filled  with  masterpieces  of  sculpture,  but  we  will 
keep  our  eyes  unwearied  and  merely  glance  along  the  rows.  At 
lengtli  we  reach  a  circular  court  with  a  fountain  flinging  up  its  waters 
in  the  center.  Before  us  is  an  ojk'U  cabinet ;  there  is  a  beautiful, 
manly  form  within,  but  you  would  not  for  an  instant  take  it  for  the 
Apollo.  By  the  Gorgon  head  it  holds  alof^,  we  recognize  Canova's 
Perseus,  —  he  has  copied  the  form  and  attitude  of  the  Apollo,  but  he 
17  Y 


386  cathcaet's  lttebaey  reader. 

could  not  breathe  into  it  the  same  warming  fire.  It  seemed  to  me 
particularly  lifeless,  and  I  greatly  preferred  his  Boxers,  who  stand  on 
either  side  of  it. 

Now  we  look  on  a  scene  of  the  deepest  physical  agony.  Mark  how 
every  muscle  of  old  Laocoon's  body  is  distended  to  the  utmost  iu  the 
mighty  struggle !  What  intensity  of  pain  in  the  quivering,  distorted 
features !  Every  nerve  which  despair  can  call  into  action  is  excited 
in  one  giant  effort,  and  a  scream  of  anguish  seems  just  to  have 
quivered  on  those  nuirble  lips.  The  serpents  have  rolled  their  stran- 
gling coils  around  father  and  sons,  but  terror  has  taken  away  the 
strength  of  the  latter,  and  they  make  but  feeble  resistance.  After 
looking  with  indifference  on  the  many  casts  of  this  group,  I  was 
the  more  moved  by  the  magnificent  original.  It  deserves  all  the 
admiration  that  luis  been  heaped  upon  it. 

I  absolutely  trembled  on  approaching  the  cabinet  of  the  Apollo.  I 
had  built  up  in  fancy  a  glorious  ideal,  drawn  from  all  that  bards  have 
sung  or  artists  have  rhapsodized  about  its  divine  beauty.  I  feared 
disappointment,  —  I  dreaded  to  have  my  ideal  displaced  and  my  faith 
in  the  power  of  human  genius  overthrown  by  a  form  less  than  perfect. 
However,  with  a  feeling  of  desperate  excitement,  I  entered  and  looked 
upon  it.  Now  what  shall  I  say  of  it?  How  descril^e  it3  immort^il 
beauty  ?  To  Avhat  shall  I  liken  its  glorious  perfection  of  form,  or  the 
fire  that  imbues  the  cold  marble  with  the  soul  of  a  god  ?  Not  with 
sculpture,  for  it  stands  alone  and  al)ove  all  other  works  of  art,  nor 
with  men,  for  it  has  a  majesty  more  than  human.  I  gazed  on  it,  lost 
in  wonder  and  joy,  —  joy  that  I  could  at  last  take  into  my  mind  a 
faultless  ideal  of  godlike,  exalted  manhood.  The  fi<nire  seems  actually 
to  possess  a  soul,  and  I  looked  on  it,  not  as  on  a  piece  of  marble,  but 
as  on  a  being  of  loftier  mold,  and  waited  to  see  him  step  forward 
when  the  arrow  had  reached  its  mark.  I  would  give  worlds  to  feel 
one  moment  the  sculptor's  triumph  when  his  work  was  completed ; 
that  one  exulting  thrill  must  have  repaid  him  for  every  ill  he  might 
have  suffered  on  earth. 


HUXLEY.  887 

HUXLEY. 

1825- 

TiioMAR  He.ikt  nrxLET,  ooe  of  tlie  most  distinpnisbed  of  living  physiologists  and  natar&l- 
isto,  WM  bom  in  Middlesex,  England,  in  1826.  At  an  early  age  he  entered  tbe  royal  navy  in 
the  capacity  of  sorgeon.  In  1W8  be  produced  his  hrst  book,  0»  the  AtMlomy  and  Affinities  of 
the  Family  of  the  Medusm.  In  1854  he  became  Professor  of  Paleontology  in  the  School  of  Mines, 
and  a  few  years  later  was  appointed  Professor  of  Physiology  in  tbe  Royal  Institution.  To  the 
n  cent  controversy  as  to  tbe  oriicin  of  man  Professor  Iluxky  has  been  an  iiniwrtaut  contributor. 
Mis  Man's  PUtce  in  Natnre  was  largely  instrumental  in  direcliiig  public  attention  to  this  subject, 
nnd  the  ability  of  the  book  made  a  profound  impression  on  thoughtful  minds.  His  later  work. 
Protoplasm,  or  The  Physical  Basis  of  Life,  was  not  less  stimulating  and  impressive.  Professor 
Huxley  IS  one  of  the  ablest  supporters  of  the  Darwinian  theory.  From  the  lecture  platform 
he  has  »on  the  admiring  attention  of  the  best  minds  of  Englaml,  and  through  his  published 
words  has  gained  the  car  of  the  whole  scientific  world.  To  no  man  now  li\  ing  docs  science  owe 
a  Urgcr  debt,  whether  as  an  investigator  or  as  an  expounder.  His  style  is  peculiarly  attractive, 
and  in  his  hands  tbe  driest  themes  of  science  Uke  on  a  chann  which  compels  attention  and 
quickens  interest. 

OH  SCIENTIFIC  EDUCATION. 

I  HOPE  you  will  consider  that  the  arg^ment.s  I  have  now  stated, 
even  if  there  were  no  better  ones,  constitute  a  sufficient  apoloj^  for 
urs^inp^  the  introduction  of  science  into  schools.  The  next  question 
to  which  I  hjive  to  address  myself  is,  What  sciences  ought  to  be  thus 
tauj^ht  ?  And  this  is  one  of  the  most  important  of  questions.  There 
are.  other  forms  of  culture  beside  physical  science ;  and  I  should  be 
profouiully  sorry  to  see  the  fact  for<;otten,  or  even  to  observe  a  ten- 
dency to  stiirve  or  cripple  literary  or  {esthetic  cidture  for  the  sake  of 
science.  Such  a  narrow  view  of  the  nature  of  education  has  nothing 
to  do  with  my  firm  conviction  that  a  complete  and  thorough  scientific 
culture  ought  to  be  intro<lueed  into  all  schools.  By  this,  however,  I 
do  not  me^in  that  every  school-boy  sliould  be  taught  everything  in 
science.  That  would  be  a  very  absunl  thing  to  conceive,  and  a  very 
mischievous  thing  to  attempt.  What  I  mean  is,  that  no  lx)y  or  girl 
should  leave  school  without  possessing  a  grasp  of  the  general  char- 
acter of  science,  and  without  having  been  disciplined,  more  or  less, 
in  the  nicthocls  of  all  sciences  ;  so  that,  when  turned  into  the  world 
to  make  their  own  way,  they  shall  be  pn^pared  to  face  scientific  prob- 
lems, not  by  knowing  at  once  the  conditions  of  every  problem,  or  by 
being  able  at  once  to  solve  it,  but  by  l)eing  familiar  with  the  general 
current  of  scientific  thought,  and  by  l)eing  able  to  apply  the  methods 
of  science  in  the  proper  way,  when  they  have  acquainted  themselves 
with  the  conditions  of  the  special  problem. 


388  cathcabt's  literary  reader. 

That  is  what  I  understand  by  scientific  education.  To  furnish  a 
boy  with  such  an  education,  it  is  by  no  means  necessary  that  lie 
should  devote  his  whole  school  existence  to  physical  science ;  in  fact, 
no  one  would  lament  so  one-sided  a  proceeding  more  than  I.  Nay, 
more,  it  is  not  necessar}'  for  him  to  give  up  more  than  a  moderate 
share  of  his  time  to  such  studies,  if  they  be  properly  selected  and 
arrungt^I,  and  if  he  Ix^  trained  in  them  in  a  fitting  manner. 

I  conceive  the  proper  course  to  be  somewhat  as  follows :  To  begin 
with,  let  every  child  be  instructed  in  those  general  views  of  the  phe- 
nomena of  nature  for  which  we  have  no  exact  English  name.  The 
nearest  approximation  to  a  name  for  what  1  mean,  which  we  possess, 
is  **  physical  geography  " ;  that  is  to  say,  a  general  knowledge  of  the 
earth,  and  what  is  on  it,  in  it,  and  about  it.  If  any  one  who  has 
had  experience  of  the  ways  of  young  children  will  call  to  mind  their 
questions,  he  will  find  that,  so  far  as  they  can  be  put  into  any  scien- 
tific category,  they  come  under  this  head.  The  chdd  asks,"  What  is 
the  moon,  and  why  does  it  shine  ?  "  "  What  is  this  water,  and  wherr 
does  it  run  ?  **  "  What  is  the  wind  ?  '*  "  What  makes  the  waves  in 
the  sea  ?  "  **  Where  does  this  animal  live,  and  what  is  the  use  of  that 
plant  ?  "  And  if  not  snubbed  and  stunted  by  being  told  not  to  ask 
foolish  questions,  there  is  no  limit  to  the  intelle<iual  craving  of  a 
young  child,  nor  any  bounds  to  the  slow  but  solid  accretion  of 
knowledge  and  development  of  the  thinking  faculty  in  this  way.  To 
all  such  questions  answers  which  are  necessarily  incomplete,  though 
true  as  far  as  they  go,  may  be  given  by  any  teacher  whose  ideas  rep- 
resent real  knowledge,  and  not  mere  book  learning ;  and  a  panorami<' 
view  of  nature,  accompanied  by  a  strong  infusion  of  the  scientific 
habit  of  mind,  may  thus  be  placed  within  the  reach  of  every  child 
of  nine  or  ten. 

After  this  preliminary  opening  of  the  eyes  to  the  great  spectacle  of 
the  daily  progress  of  nature,  as  the  reasoning  faculties  of  the  child  grow, 
and  he  becomes  familiar  with  the  use  of  the  tools  of  knowledge,  — 
reading,  writing,  and  elementary  mathematics,  —  he  should  pass  on 
to  what  is,  in  the  more  strict  sense,  physical  science.  Now,  there  are 
two  kinds  of  physical  science.  The  one  regards  form  and  the  rela- 
tion of  forms  to  one  another ;  the  other  deals  with  causes  and  effects. 
In  many  of  what  we  term  onr  sciences,  these  two  kinds  are  mixed  up 
together ;  but  systematic  lK)tany  is  a  pure  example  of  the  former 
kind,  and  physics  of  the  latter  kind,  of  science.     Every  educational 


HUXLEY.  889 

advantage  which  training  in  physical  science  can  give  is  obtainable 
from  the  proper  study  of  tliese  two ;  and  I  should  be  contented  for 
tlie  present  if  they,  added  to  physical  jijeography,  furnished  the  whole 
of  the  scientific  curriculum  of  schools.  Indeed,  I  conceive  it  would 
Ik*  one  of  the  greatest  boons  which  could  be;  conferred  upon  England, 
if  henceforward  every  chiUl  in  the  country  were  instructed  in  the 
general  knowledge  of  the  things  about  it,  in  the  elements  of  physics 
and  of  botany  ;  but  I  should  be  still  better  pleased  if  there  could  be 
added  somewhat  of  chemistrj',  and  an  elementary  acquaintance  with 
human  physiolog}'. 

So  far  as  school  education  is  concerned,  I  want  to  go  no  further 
just  now  ;  and  I  believe  that  such  instruction  would  make  an  excel- 
lent introduction  to  that  preparatoiy  scientific  training  M'hich,  as  I 
have  indicated,  is  so  essential  for  the  successful  pursuit  of  our  most 
importiint  professions,  lint  this  modicum  of  instruction  must  be  so 
given  as  to  insure  real  knowledge  and  practical  discipline.  If  scien- 
tific education  is  to  be  dealt  with  as  mere  book-work,  it  will  be  better 
not  to  attempt  it,  but  to  stick  to  the  Ljitin  Grammar,  which  makes  no 
pretence  to  be  anything  but  book-work. 

If  the  great  benefits  of  scientific  training  are  sought,  it  is  essential 
tliat  such  training  should  be  real ;  that  is  to  say,  that  the  mind  of 
the  scholar  should  be  brought  into  direct  relation  with  fact,  that  he 
should  not  merely  l)e  told  a  thing,  but  made  to  see  by  the  use  of  his 
own  intelhrt  and  ability  that  the  thing  is  so  and  no  otherwise.  The 
great  pecidiarity  of  scientific  training,  that  in  virtue  of  which  it  can- 
not be  replacetl  by  any  other  discipline  whatsoever,  is  this  bringing 
of  the  mind  directly  into  contact  with  fact,  and  practicing  the  intel- 
lect in  the  eompletest  form  of  induction  ;  that  is  to  say,  in  drawing 
conclusions  from  particular  facts  made  known  by  immediate  observa- 
tion of  nature. 

The  other  studies  which  enter  into  ordinary  education  do  not  disci- 
pline the  min<l  in  this  way.  Mathematical  training  is  almost  purely 
df<luctive.  The  mathematician  starts  with  a  few  simple  propositions, 
the  proof  of  which  is  so  obvious  that  they  an-  called  self-evident, 
and  the  rest  of  his  work  consists  of  subtile  deductions  from  them. 
The  teaching  of  languages,  at  any  rate  as  ordinarily  practiced,  is  of 
the  same  general  nature,  —  authority  and  trwlition  furnish  the  data, 
and  the  mental  op<'rations  of  the  scholar  an*  deductive. 

Again,  if  history  be  the  subjt^t  of  study,  the  facts  are  still  taken 


890  cathcart's  literary  reader. 

upon  the  evidence  of  tra<lition  and  authority.  You  cannot  make  a 
boy  see  the  Battle  of  Thermopylae  for  himself,  or  know,  of  his  own 
knowledge,  that  Cromwell  once  ruled  Enghind.  There  is  no  getting 
into  direct  contact  with  natural  fact  by  this  road ;  there  is  no  dis- 
pensing with  authority,  but  rather  a  resting  upon  it. 

In  all  these  respects  science  differs  from  other  educational  disci- 
pline, and  prepares  the  scholar  for  common  life.  What  have  we  to 
do  in  every-day  life?  Most  of  the  business  which  demands  our 
attention  is  matter  of  fact,  which  needs,  in  the  first  place,  to  be  accu- 
rately observed  or  apprehended  ;  in  the  second,  to  be  interpreted  by 
inductive  and  deductive  reasonings,  which  are  altogether  similar  in 
their  nature  to  those  employed  in  science.  In  the  one  case,  as  in  the 
other,  whatever  is  taken  for  granted  is  so  taken  at  one's  own  peril. 
Fact  and  reason  are  the  ultimate  arbiters,  and  patience  and  honesty 
are  the  great  helpers  out  of  difficulty. 

But  if  scientific  training  is  to  yield  its  most  eminent  results,  it 
must,  I  repeat,  be  ma<le  practical.  That  is  to  say,  in  explaining  to 
a  child  the  general  phenomena  of  nature,  you  must,  as  far  as  possible, 
give  reality  to  your  teaching  by  object-lessons.  In  teaching  him 
botany,  he  must  handle  the  plants  and  dissect  the  flowers  for  himself; 
in  teaching  him  physics  and  chemistry,  you  must  not  be  solicitous  to 
fill  him  with  information,  but  you  must  be  careful  that  what  he  learns 
he  knows  of  his  own  knowledge.  Don't  be  satisfied  with  telling  him 
that  a  magnet  attracts  iron.  Let  him  see  that  it  does  ;  let  him  feel 
the  pull  of  the  one  upon  the  other  for  himself.  And,  especially,  tell 
him  that  it  is  his  duty  to  doubt,  until  he  is  compelled  by  the  absolute 
authority  of  nature  to  believe,  that  which  is  written  in  books.  Pursue 
this  discipline  carefully  and  conscientiously,  and  you  may  make  sure 
that,  however  scanty  may  be  the  measure  of  information  which  you 
have  poured  into  the  boy's  mind,  you  have  created  an  intellectual 
habit  of  priceless  value  in  practical  life. 

One  is  constantly  asked,  When  should  this  scientific  education  he 
commenced  ?  I  should  say  with  the  dawn  of  intelligence.  As  I 
have  already  said,  a  child  seeks  for  information  about  matters  of 
physical  science  as  soon  as  it  begins  to  talk.  The  first  teaching  it 
wants  is  an  object-lesson  of  one  sort  or  another ;  and  as  soon  as  it  is 
fit  for  systematic  instruction  of  any  kind,  it  is  fit  for  a  modicum  of 
science. 

People   talk   of  the   difficulty  of  teaching   young   children   such 


HUXLEY.  391 

matters,  and  in  the  same  breath  insist  upon  their  learning  their  Cate- 
chism, which  contains  propositions  far  harder  to  comprehend  than 
anything  in  the  educational  course  I  have  proposed.  Again,  I  am 
incessantly  told  that  we  who  advocate  the  introduction  of  science 
into  schools  make  no  allowance  for  the  stupidity  of  the  average  boy 
or  girl ;  but,  in  my  belief,  that  stupidity,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten, 
is  unnatural,  and  is  developed  by  a  long  process  of  parental  and 
pedagogic  repression  of  the  natural  intellectual  appetites,  accompanied 
by  a  persistent  attempt  to  create  artificial  ones  for  food  which  is  not 
only  tasteless,  but  essentially  indigestible. 

Those  who  urge  the  difficulty  of  instructing  young  people  in 
science  are  apt  to  forget  another  very  important  condition  of  success  ; 
important  in  all  kinds  of  teaching,  but  most  essential,  I  am  disposed 
to  think,  when  the  scholars  are  very  young.  This  condition  is,  that 
the  teacher  should  himself  really  and  practically  know  his  subject. 
If  he  does,  he  will  be  able  to  speak  of  it  in  the  easy  language,  and 
with  the  completeness  of  conviction,  with  which  he  talks  of  any  ordi- 
nary' every-day  matter.  If  he  does  not,  he  will  be  afraid  to  wander 
beyond  the  limits  of  the  technical  phraseology  which  he  has  got  up ; 
and  a  dead  dogmatism,  which  oppresses  or  raises  opposition,  will  take 
the  place  of  the  lively  confidence,  born  of  personal  conviction,  which 
cheers  and  encourages  the  eminently  sympathetic  mind  of  childhood. 


iidii,  CATHCABT'a    LiiLKAliY    RRADKR. 

TIMROD. 
1829-1867. 

HsirmT  TnnoD  wis  bom  in  CluriesUm,  Soatb  CaroliBA,  ott  the  Stb  of  Deeasber,  18S9.  II  .. 
father,  Williaai  Henrjr  Tinirod,  wm  alfo  »  poet.  The  ton  received  hii  eoUegfaite  eincatton  at  the 
University  of  Geon^ia,  althuuj^h  he  left  a  short  time  before  the  fiadaating  onnmenefment  He 
taught  as  private  tutor  several  yean  in  his  native  city ;  and  during  the  civil  war  for  a  year 
or  two  was  upon  the  editorial  staff  of  the  South  Carolinian  newspaper  in  Columbia.  In  1800 
Ticknor  and  Fields  of  Boston  issued  a  small  volume  of  Poewu  by  Timrod  ;  and  since  his  deatli 
in  1878  —  a  conplete  edition  has  appeared,  with  a  sketch  of  the  poet's  brief  and  painful  life.  ! 
died  on  the  7th  of  October.  1867. 

Mr.  Timrod'i  best  poems  are  the  patriotic  and  the  idyllic ;  and  his  reputation,  especially  in  the 
South.  resU  just  now  mainly  upon  the  former.  In  this  vein  his  Cmrolinm  is  his  strongest  and 
beat,  and  is  as  terse  and  vehement  in  movement  as  a  Greek  war-cry.  A  Cry  to  Armt  has  also 
many  admirers  ;  and  if  we  transfer  the  scene  of  it  to  Greece  or  Germany,  substituting  Tyrtaioa 
or  Komer  for  Timrod,  its  mosteal  Tehaacnce  would  be  strikJaf .  This  stanza  especially  is  nota- 
ble for  ito  ttmoM  radin  :  — 

"  Gome,  with  the  weapons  at  your  call,  — 

With  musket,  pil^e,  or  knife ; 
He  wields  the  deadliest  blade  of  all 

Wbo  lightest  holds  hu  life. 
The  arm  that  drive*  its  nnbought  blows 

With  all  a  patriot's  srom. 
If  wht  brain  a  tyrant  with  a  roae 

Ot  stab  him  with  a  thorn." 

But  dearly  the  poet  was  more  at  hoae  among  the  beauties  of  natnre.  to  which  he  was  exquis- 
itely alive.  In  this  vein  ImHt  is  eaa  of  his  happtet  effbrta.  It  is  earnest,  natural,  musical, 
chaste,  and  at  the  same  time  teawmns,  His  kMgeat  poem  is  A  Fmtm  cf  Poety,  —  the  stor>-  of 
aspiratkm.  struggle,  and  hearUfiulare, — a  foreahadowing  of  his  own  brief,  eager,  and  unattaining 
■tmggle  for  succcm. 

SPRING. 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair,  — 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain. 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  bums 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  aglee, 

And  there  's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 


TIMROD.  393 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 
Of  Winter  in  the  land, 
Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn  ; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 
That  age  to  childhood  bind. 
The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn. 
The  brown  of  Autumn  corn. 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 

A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the  gloom. 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

Already,  here  and  there,  on  frailest  stems 
Appear  some  azure  gems. 
Small  as  might  deck,  upon  a  gala  day, 
The  forehead  of  a  fay. 

In  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth 
The  crocus  breaking  earth  ; 
And  near  the  snowdrop's  tender  white  and  green. 
The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  needs  must  pass 
Along  the  budding  grass. 
And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamored  South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 

Still  there  'a  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  mom ; 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 
And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await. 
Before  a  palace  gate, 
17* 


394  CATHLAKl  6    LiTKttARY    READER. 

Some  woDdrous  pageant ;  aiid  you  scarce  would  start. 

If  from  a  beech's  heart 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say, 

**  Behold  me !     I  am  May  !  " 

Ah  !  who  would  couple  thoughts  of  war  and  crime 
With  such  a  blessed  time ! 
Who,  in  tin-  \vt  st  wind's  aromatic  breath. 
Could  hear  the  call  of  Death  1 

Yet  not  more  surely  shall  the  Spring  awake 
The  voice  of  wood  and  brake. 
Than  she  shall  rouse,  for  all  her  tranquil  charms, 
A  million  men  to  arms. 

Tliere  shall  be  deeper  hues  upon  her  plains 
Than  all  her  sunlit  rains. 
And  every  gladdening  influence  around. 
Can  suuunon  from  the  ground. 

Oh  !  standing  on  this  desecrated  mold, 
Methinks  that  I  behold. 
Lifting  her  bloody  daisies  up  to  God, 
Spriiiir,  kneeling  on  the  sod. 

And  calling,  with  the  voice  of  all  her  rills, 
Upon  the  ancient  hills 
To  fall  and  (rush  tiie  tyrants  and  the  slaves 
Who  turn  her  meads  to  graves. 


A  XOTHES'S  WAIL. 

My  babe  !  my  tiny  babe !  my  only  babe ! 
My  single  rose-bud  in  a  crown  of  thorns  ! 
^ly  lamp  that  in  that  narrow  hut  of  life, 
Whence  I  looked  forth  upon  a  iiip:ht  of  storm. 
Burned  with  thr  lustiT  of  the  moon  and  -•   i- 

Jkly  babe  !  my  tiny  babe  !  my  only  babe  ! 
Behold,  the  bud  is  gone  !  the  thorns  remain  ! 


TIM  ROD.  396 

My  lamp  hath  fallen  from  its  niche  —  ah,  me  ! 
Eiarth  drinks  the  frajp-ant  flame,  and  I  am  left 
Forever  and  forever  in  the  dark  ! 

My  babe  !  my  babe  !  my  own  and  only  babe  ! 
"Where  art  thou  now  ?     If  somewhere  in  the  sky 
An  an«^el  hold  thee  in  his  radiant  arms, 
I  challenge  him  to  clasp  thy  tender  form 
With  half  the  fervor  of  a  mother's  love  1 

Forgive  me,  Lord  !  forgive  my  reckless  grief ! 
Forgive  me  that  this  rebel,  selfish  heart 
Would  almost  make  me  jealous  for  my  child, 
Though  thy  own  lap  enthroned  him.     Lord,  thou  hasl 
So  many  such  !     I  liave  —  ah  !  had  —  but  one ! 

O  yet  once  more,  my  bal)e,  to  hear  thy  cry ! 
O  yet  once  more,  my  babe,  to  see  thy  smile ! 

0  yet  once  more  to  feel  against  my  breast 

Those  cool,  soft  hands,  that  warm,  wet,  eager  mouth, 
With  the  sweet  sharpness  of  its  budding  pearls  I 

But  it  must  never,  never  more  be  mine 
To  mark  the  "rrowing  meaning  in  thine  eyes, 
To  watcli  thy  soul  unfolding  leaf  by  leaf. 
Or  catch,  with  ever  fresh  surprise  and  joy, 
Thy  dawning  recognitions  of  the  world ! 

Three  different  shadows  of  thyself,  my  babe, 
Change  with  each  other  while  I  weep.     The  first, 
The  sweetest,  yet  the  not  least  fraught  with  pain, 
Clings  like  my  living  l)oy  around  my  neck. 
Or  purs  and  murmurs  softly  at  my  feet ! 

Another  is  a  little  mound  of  earth  ; 

Tliat  comes  the  oftenest,  darling  !     In  my  dreams, 

1  see  it  beaten  by  the  midnight  rain. 

Or  chilled  beneath  the  moon.     Ah  !  what  a  couch 
For  that  which  I  have  shielded  from  a  breath 
That  would  not  stir  tlie  violets  on  thy  grave ! 


S96  CATHCART's    LITtKAin     11   \1'I  i: 

The  third,  my  precious  babe  !  the  third,  O  Lord ! 
Is  a  fair  cherub  face  beyond  the  stars. 
Wearing  the  roses  of  a  mystic  bliss, 
Yet  sometimes  not  uusaddeued  by  a  ghince 
Turned  earthward  on  a  mother  in  her  woe  ! 

This  is  the  vision,  Lord,  that  1  wumti  kctp 
Before  me  always.     But,  alas  !  as  yet. 
It  is  the  dimmest  and  the  rarest  too  ! 
O  touch  my  sight,  or  break  the  cloudy  burs 
That  hide  it,  lest  I  madden  where  I  kneel ! 


A  COmiOH  THOUGHT .• 

Somewhere  on  this  earthly  planet 

In  the  dust  of  flowers  to  be, 
In  the  dew-<lrop  in  the  sunshine. 

Sleeps  a  solemn  day  for  me. 

At  this  wakeful  hour  of  midnight 

I  behold  it  dawn  in  mist. 
And  I  hear  a  sound  of  sobbing 

Through  the  darkness,  —  hist !  O,  hist ! 

In  a  dim  and  musky  chamber, 

I  am  breathing  life  away  ; 
Some  one  draws  a  curtain  softly 

And  I  watch  the  broadening  day. 

As  it  purples  in  the  zenith, 

As  it  brightens  on  the  lawn, 
There  's  a  hush  of  death  about  me. 

And  a  whisper,  "  He  is  gone  !  " 

•  This  little  poem,  written  seTeral  years  before  the  poet's  death,  was  prophetic.  He  died  at 
the  ven-  hour  here  predicted.  The  wliisper,  "  He  is  gone,"  went  forth  as  the  day  was  paipling 
in  the  zenith,  on  that  October  morning  of  1867- 


BRET   HAUTE.  397 

BRET  IIAETE. 

1838- 

Fra!«ci9  Bret  IlArri!  maa  bom  in  the  State  of  New  York  in  1838.  When  quite  young  he 
went  to  California,  where  he  remained  until  within  a  few  years.  His  early  occupations  were 
various,  including  teaching  and  journalism.  His  success  in  the  latter  field  of  effort  led  him 
suddenly  into  hterature  and  fame.  His  earUcst  essays  in  prose  and  verse  were  contributed  to 
California  peritMlirals,  but  speedily  found  their  way  to  the  AtUntic  coast  and  even  to  Europe, 
being  admired  fur  their  positive  originality  and  as  representative  of  a  new  phase  of  social  life. 
In  lads  the  O.erlaiid  Monthly  was  started  in  San  Fnineisco,  and  Mr.  Ilarte  was  called  to 
the  editorial  chair,  which  he  tilled  very  creditably  for  a  year  or  two.  But  he  liad  outgrown  the 
•phere  of  a  Pacilic  coast  constituency,  and  there  was  a  general  demand  for  his  removal  to  the 
larger  field  of  the  East,  He  yielded  to  this,  and  during  the  last  few  years  has  been  a  resident 
of  New  York.  Mr.  Hartc  is,  perhaps,  equally  distinguish:>d  as  a  writer  of  prose  and  poetry: 
Tkf  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  and  The  Ueatken  Chinee,  representing  these  two  forms  of  composi- 
on,  are  unique  in  literature,  and  their  merit  has  never  been  approximated  by  the  author's  many 
autors.  Their  marvelous  popularity  is  due,  primarily,  to  the  strangeness  of  the  life  whose 
iKlucts  they  are,  —  the  wild  society  of  newly-settled  regions,  in  which  violence  is  the  ruling, 
ul  humanity  the  exceptional,  social  force ;  and,  secondarily,  to  a  peculiar  quality  of  the  author's 
,{.  nius,  exclusively  peculiar  to  him,  it  may  be  said,  by  which  he  is  enabled  to  besiege  the  reader's 
mind  with  almost  simultaneoaa  humor  and  pathos.  The  power  of  employing  these  two  agencies 
in  apparently  antagonistic,  yet  practically  harmonious  combination,  is,  perhaps,  the  secret  of  Mr. 
Harte's  literary  success.  Surely  it  is  possessed  in  equal  development  by  no  other  living  writer. 
Mis  range  in  composition  seems  to  be  limited,  and  he  seems  to  draw  inspiration  only  from  the 
scenes  which  first  engaged  his  pen ;  when  he  ventures  across  the  Rocky  Mountains  into  regions 
of  conventional  life,  his  wings  fail  him  and  he  falls  to  the  level  of  commonplace.  In  proof  of 
this  it  is  only  necessary  to  cite  the  fact  that  since  his  removal  to  the  Atlantic  coast  he  has 
written  but  little,  and  that  little  far  inferior  in  quality  to  his  Pacific  productions.  The  volume 
entitled  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  contains  his  best  work  in  prose  ;  his  verses  have  been 
published  in  a  volume  called  Poems. 

JOHN    CHINAMAH. 

The  expression  of  the  Chinese  face  in  the  ap:gregate  is  neither 
cheerful  nor  happy.  In  an  acquaintance  of  half  a  dozen  years,  I  can 
only  recall  one  or  two  exceptions  to  this  rule.  There  is  an  abiilin^ 
consciousness  of  dep^nulation,  —  a  secret  pain  or  self-hunuliation 
visible  in  the  lines  of  the  mouth  and  eye.  Whether  it  is  only  a 
modification  of  Turkish  gravity,  or  whether  it  is  the  dread  Valley  of 
the  Shadow  of  the  Drug  through  which  they  are  continually  straying, 
I  cannot  say.  They  seldom  smile,  and  their  laughter  is  of  such  an 
« xtmordinary  and  sardonic  nature  —  so  purely  a  mechanical  spasm, 
(|uitc  independent  of  any  mirthfid  attribute  —  that  to  this  day  I  am 
(loubtfid  whether  I  ever  saw  a  Chinaman  laugh. 

1  have  oflen  been  struck  with  the  delicate  pliability  of  llic  Chinese 
xprcssion  and  taste,  that  might  suggest  a  broader  and  deeper  criti- 


898  cathcart's  lite&aby  reader. 

cism  than  is  becoming  these  pages.  A  Chinaman  will  adopt  the 
American  costume,  and  wear  it  with  a  taste  of  color  and  detail  tlint 
will  surpass  those  "  native,  and  to  the  manner  bom."  To  look  u\  :i 
Chinese  slipper,  one  might  imagine  it  impossible  to  shape  the  original 
foot  to  anything  less  cumbrous  and  roomy,  yet  a  neater-fitting  boot 
than  that  belonging  to  the  Americanized  Chinaman  is  rarely  seen  on  tliis 
side  of  the  Continent.  When  the  loose  sack  or  paletot  takes  the  place 
of  his  brocade  blouse,  it  is  worn  with  a  refinement  and  grace  that 
might  bring  a  jealous  pang  to  the  exquisite  of  our  more  refined  cirili- 
zation.  Pantaloons  fall  easily  and  naturally  over  legs  that  have  known 
unlimited  freedom  and  bagginess,  and  even  garrote  collars  meet  cor- 
rectly around  sun-tanned  throats.  The  new  expression  seldom  over- 
flows in  gaudy  cravats.  1  will  back  my  Americanized  Chinaninn 
against  any  neophyte  of  European  birth  in  the  choice  of  that  arti> 
While  in  our  own  State,  the  Greaser  resists  one  by  one  the  garments 
of  the  Northeni  invader,  and  even  wears  the  livery  of  his  conqueror 
with  a  wild  and  buttonless  freedom,  the  Chinaman,  abused  and  de- 
graded as  he  is,  changes  by  correctly  graded  transition  to  the  gar- 
ments of  Christian  civilization.  There  is  but  one  article  of  European 
wear  that  he  avoids.  These  Bohemian  eyes  have  never  yet  been 
pained  by  the  spectacle  of  a  tall  hat  on  the  head  of  an  intelligent 
Chinaman. 

My  acquaintance  with  John  has  l>een  made  up  of  weekly  inter- 
views, involving  the  adjustment  of  the  washing  accounts,  so  that  I 
have  not  been  able  to  study  his  character  from  a  social  view-point  or 
observe  him  in  the  privacy  of  the  domestic  circle.  I  have  gatlicred 
enough  to  justify  me  in  believing  him  to  be  generally  honest,  faithful, 
simple,  and  painstaking.  Of  his  simplicity  let  me  record  an  instance 
where  a  sad  and  civil  young  Chinaman  brought  me  certain  shirts  with 
most  of  the  buttons  missing  and  others  hanging  on  delusively  by  a 
single  thread.  In  a  moment  of  unguarded  irony  I  informed  him  that 
unity  would  at  least  have  been  preserved  if  the  buttons  were  removed 
altogether.  He  smiled  sadly  and  went  away.  I  thought  I  had  hurt 
his  feelings,  until  the  next  week  when  he  brought  me  my  shirts  with 
a  look  of  intelligence,  and  the  buttons  carefully  and  totally  erased. 
At  another  time,  to  guard  against  his  general  disposition  to  carry  oflf 
anything  as  soiled  clothes  that  he  thought  could  hold  water,  I  re- 
quested him  to  always  wait  until  he  saw  me.  Coming  home  late  one 
evening,  I  found  the  household  in  great   consternation,  over  an  im- 


BEBT   HARTE.  .399 

movable  Celestial  who  had  remained  seated  on  the  front  door-step 
(liirini?  the  day,  sad  and  submissive,  firm  but  also  patient,  and  only 
'  11  traying  any  animation  or  token  of  his  mission  when  he  saw  me 
•  minpf.     This  same  Chinaman  evinced  some  evidences  of  regard  for 
a  little  girl  in  the  family,  who  in  her  turn  reposed  such  faith  in  his 
intellectual  qualities  as  to  present  him  with  a  pretematurally  unin- 
resting  Sunday-school  book,  her  own  property.     This  book  John 
iiiiide  a  point  of  carrying  ostentatiously  with  him  in  his  weekly  visits. 
It  appeared  usually  on  the  top  of  the  clean  clothes,  and  was  sometimes 
painfully  clasped  outside  of  the  big  bundle  of  soiled  linen.     Whether 
John  l)elievcd  he   unconsciously  imbibed  some  spiritual  life  through 
its  pastel)oard  cover,  as  the  l*rince  in  the  Arabian  Nights  imbibed  the 
medicine  through  the  handle  of  the  mallet,  or  whether  he  wished  to 
(  xhibit  a  due  sense  of  gratitude,  or  whether  he  had  n't  any  pockets,  I 
have  never  been  able  to  ascertain.     In  his  turn  he  would  sometimes  cut 
marvelous  imitation  roses  from  carrots  for  his  little  friend.     I  am  in- 
incd  to  think  that  the  few  roses  strewn  in  John's  path  were  such 
cntless  imitations.    The  thorns  only  were  real.    From  the  persecu- 
ons  of  the  young  and  old  of  a  certain  class,  his  life  was  a  torment. 
I  don't  know  what  was  the  exact  philosophy  that  Confucius  taught, 
l)iit  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  poor  John  in  his  persecution  is  still  able 
I  detect  the  conscious  hate  and  fear  with  which  inferiority  always 
.( jrards  the  possibility  of  even-handed  justice,  and  which  is  the  key- 
note to  the  vulgar  clamor  about  servile  and  d^raded  races. 

BOONDEB. 

I  NEVER  knew  how  the  subject  of  this  memoir  came  to  attach  him- 
'  If  so  closely  to  the  affections  of  my  family h  He  was  not  a  prepos- 
ssing  dog.  He  was  not  a  dog  of  even  average  birth  and  bn*eding. 
i  I  is  pedigree  was  involved  in  the  deep<*st  obscurity.  He  may  have 
liad  brothers  and  sisters,  but  in  the  whole  range  of  my  canine  ac- 
fiuaintance  (a  pre.tty  extensive  one),  I  never  detectetl  any  of  Boonder'a 
peculiarities  in  any  other  of  his  species.  His  body  was  long,  and 
It  is  fon*legs  and  hind  lep^s  were  very  wide  apaii,  as  though  Nature 
originally  intendetl  to  put  an  extra  pair  between  them,  but  had  un- 
wisely allowed  herself  to  l)e  persuaded  out  of  it.  This  peculiarity 
was  annoying  on  cohl  nights,  as  it  always  prolonged  the  interval  of 
keeping  the  door  open  for  Boonder's  ingress  long  enough  to  allow 


400  CATHCAET's    LITEBAKY    PF 


two  or  three  dogs  of  a  reasonable  length  to  cuter.  Booiulcr's  feet 
were  decided;  his  toes  turned  out  considerably,  and  in  repose  his 
favorite  attitude  was  the  first  position  of  dancing.  Add  to  a  pair  < 
bright  vyvs  ears  that  seemed  to  belong  to  some  other  dog,  and  a 
symmetrically  pointed  nose  that  fitted  all  apertures  like  a  pass-kcv. 
and  you  have  Boonder  as  we  knew  him. 

I  am  inclined  to  think  that  his  popularity  was  mainly  owing  i<>  u 
quiet  impudence.     His  advent  in  the  family  was  that  of  an  old  nieiu 
ber,  who  had  l)ecn  absent  for  a  short  time,  but  had  returned  to  fa- 
miliar haunts  and  associations.     In  a  Pytliagorean  point  of  view  thi** 
might  have  been  the  case,  but  1  cannot  recall  any  deceased  member  > 
the  family  who  was  in  life  partial  to  bone-bur)'ing  (though  it  might 
be  post  mortem  a  consistent  amusement),  and  this  was  Boonder's  great 
weakness.     He  was  at  first  discovered  coiled  up  on  a  rug  in  an  upper 
chamber,  and  was  the  least  disconcerted  of  the  entire  household. 
From  tliut  moment  Boonder  became  one  of  its  recognized  members, 
and  privileges,  often  denied  the  most  intelligent  and  valuable  of  Ii 
species,  were  quietly  taken  by  him  and  submitted  to  by  us.     Thus,  w 
he  were  found  coiled  up  in  a  clothes-basket,  or  any  article  of  clothini^' 
assumixl  locomotion  on  its  own  account,  we  only  said,  "  O,  it  *s  Boon- 
der," with  a  feeling  of  relief  that  it  was  nothing  worse. 

I  have  spoken  of  his  fondness  for  bone-biuying.  It  could  not  1 ' 
called  an  economical  faculty,  for  he  invariably  forgot  the  locality  of 
his  tnasnrc,  and  covered  the  garden  with  purposeless  holes;  but 
although  the  violets  and  daisies  were  not  improved  by  Boonder's 
gardening,  no  one  ever  thought  of  punishing  him.  He  became  a 
synonym  for  fate ;  a  Boonder  to  be  gnimblwl  at,  to  be  accepted 
philosophically,  —  but  never  to  be  averted.  But  although  he  was 
not  an  intelligent  dog, ^  nor  an  ornamental  dog,  he  possessetl  some 
gentlemanly  instincts.  Wlien  he  performed  his  only  feat,  —  begging 
upon  his  hind  legs  (and  looking  remarkably  like  a  pMigiiin),  —  igno- 
rant strangers  would  offer  him  crackers  or  cake,  which  he  did  n*t  like. 
as  a  reward  of  merit.  Boonder  always  made  a  great  show  of  accept- 
ing the  proffered  dainties,  and  even  made  hj'pocrttical  contortions  as 
if  swallowing,  but  always  deposited  the  morsel  when  he  was  unob- 
served in  the  first  convenient  receptacle,  —  usually  the  visitor's  over- 
shoes. 

In  matters  that  did  not  involve  courtesy,  Boonder  was  sincere  in 
his  likes  and  dislikes.     He  was  instinctively  opposed  to  the  railroad. 


BRET   HA£T£.  401 

When  the  track  was  laid  through  our  street,  Boonder  maintained  a 
defiant  attitude  toward  every  rail  as  it  went  down,  and  resisted  the 
cars  shortly  after  to  the  fullest  extent  of  his  lungs.  I  have  a  vivid 
recollection  of  seeing  him,  on  the  day  of  the  trial  trip,  come  down  the 
street  in  front  of  the  car,  Iwirking  himself  out  of  all  shape,  and  thrown 
iKiek  several  feet  by  the  recoil  of  each  bark.  But  Boonder  was  not 
the  oidy  one  who  has  resisted  innovations,  or  has  lived  to  see  the 
innovation  prosper  and  even  cnish  —  But  I  am  anticipating.  Boon- 
der had  previously  resisted  the  gas,  but  although  he  spent  one  whole 
day  in  angry  altercation  with  the  workmen,  —  leaving  his  bones 
unburied  and  bleaching  in  the  sun,  —  somehow  the  gas  went  in. 
The  Spring  Valley  water  was  likewise  unsuccessfully  opposed,  and 
the  grading  of  an  adjoining  lot  was  for  a  long  time  a  personal  matter 
between  Boonder  and  the  contractor. 

These  peculiarities  seemed  to  evince  some  decided  character  and 
emlxxly  some  idea.  A  prolonged  debate  in  the  family  upon  this 
topic  resulted  in  an  addition  to  his  name,  —  we  called  him  "  Boonder 
the  Conservative,"  with  a  faint  acknowledgment  of  his  fateful  power. 
But,  although  Boonder  had  his  own  way,  his  path  was  not  entirely  of 
roses.  Thorns  sometimes  pricked  his  sensibilities.  When  certain 
minor  chords  were  struck  on  the  piano,  Boonder  was  always  painfully 
affected  and  howled  a  remonstrance.  If  he  were  removed  for  com- 
pany's sake  to  the  back  yard,  at  the  recun-ence  of  the  provocation,  he 
would  go  his  whole  length  (which  was  something)  to  improvise  a 
howl  that  should  reach  the  performer.  But  we  got  accustomed  to 
Boonder,  and  as  we  were  fond  of  music  the  playing  went  on. 

One  morning  Boonder  left  the  house  in  good  spirits  with  his  regu- 
lar bone  in  his  mouth,  and  apparently  the  usual  intention  of  burning 
it.  The  next  day  he  was  picked  up  lifeless  on  the  track,  —  run  over, 
apparently,  by  the  first  car  that  went  out  of  the  depot. 

THE  AGED   STRANGER. 

"  I  w.\s  with  Grant —  "  the  stranger  said  ; 

Said  the  fanner,  "  Say  no  more. 
But  rest  thee  here  at  my  cottage  porch. 

For  thy  feet  are  weary  and  sore." 

"  I  was  with  Grant  —  "  the  stranger  said ; 
Said  the  fanner,  "  Nay,  no  more,  — 


402  cathcaet's  literary  reader. 

I  prithee  sit  at  my  frugal  board, 
And  eat  of  my  humble  store. 

**  How  fares  my  boy,  —  my  soldier  boy, 
Of  the  old  Ninth  Army  Corps  ? 

I  warrant  he  bore  him  gallantly 

In  the  smoke  and  the  battle's  roar  1 " 

**  I  know  him  not,'*  said  the  aged  man, 
"  And,  as  I  remarked  before, 

I  was  with  Grant  —  *'     "  Nay,  nay,  I  know, 
Said  the  farmer,  "  say  no  more ; 

"  He  fell  in  battle,  —  I  see,  alas ! 

Thou  'dst  smooth  these  tidings  o*er,  — 
Nay  :  speak  the  truth,  whatever  it  be. 

Though  it  rend  my  bosom's  core. 

"  How  fell  he,  —  with  his  face  to  the  foe. 
Upholding  the  flog  he  bore? 

O,  say  not  that  my  boy  disgraced 
The  uniform  that  he  wore !  ** 

**  I  cannot  tell,**  said  the  aged  man, 
"  And  should  have  remarked,  before, 

Tliat  I  was  with  Grant,  —  in  Illinois,  — 
Some  three  years  before  the  war." 

Then  the  farmer  spake  him  never  a  word. 
But  beat  with  his  fist  full  sore 

That  aged  man,  who  had  worked  for  Grant 
Some  three  years  before  the  war. 


VOCABULARY. 


A-boOB'  (Seotek),  •bore. 
AbHHrif 'l-BSIs,  the  first  inhabitants  of  a  coun- 
try,    il'sually  written  ^6cin^iii«.) 
A-brad'Ing,  rubbing  or  wearing  off. 
A'ca'd-a,  a  tree  growing  chiefly  in  tropical 

countries. 
Ac>c«ii'so«r7,  aiding;   additional;  an  accom- 

imninuMit. 
A*crld'i«t7f  sharpness  and  bitterness  to  the 

t.^st«•. 
Ad-a>nian'tlDe <^-iN),  liard  like  adamant;  inca- 

|)al>U-  of  being  broken. 
Ad>>qnate*lj,  in  an  equal  degree;  sufficiently. 
Ad*hrr'ents,  followers;  partisans. 
Ad>o-lr»>'renee,  the  period  of  growth;  youth. 
A-dop'tlon,  receivingasone'sown;  acceptance. 
A'pr>o-naat,  a  navigator  of  the  air ;  a  balloonist. 
.t-s-thet'lc,  pertaining  to,  or  cultivating,  tin- 

tasif 
Af 'fa-ble,  easy  in  conversation  ;  courteous. 
Ag'>gre*ga'tiOB,  a  collection  into  one  sum  or 

mass. 
A>gle«'  (page  892),  aglow ;  acUve. 
Alrta  Srotfk),  winds. 

A-lac'ri>t7,  cheerful  readiness;  sprightliness. 
Al-le*gor'l>cal,  having  the  nature  of  an  alle- 
gory ;  h);urative. 
Al'le^o^ry,  a  fable  or  parable ;  a  description  of 

anything  under  the  image  of  something  else 

which  r(*si'niblcs  it. 
Arms  Ms'ter  (Lalim),  fostering  mother;  the 

college  or  seminary  where  one  is  educated. 
Al>t«r><«'tioa,  dispute  in  words ;  angry  debate. 
A.l«ter>Ba'tloBt  following  one  after  theother  by 

turns. 
Am-bif '■•oas,  baring  a  doubtful  or  double 

niennin,r_ 
ABi*bas-cade',  a  lying  eoocealed  in  wait  to  at- 
tack an  cnrniy. 
A*Bie-li-o*ra'tloa«  the  act  of  making  better ; 

inipniM-iut-nt 
A*iiipn'l-ty,  |il<-n«ftntness ;  civility. 
Ani>phi>tli«'a*tcr,  an  oval  or  circular  theater. 
A-Bath'e>aia,  a  curse  pronounced  with  solem- 
nity and  authority. 


Aad'l^rOBS,  utensils  for  supporting  wood  in  a 

fireplace. 
Aa'gli'CisBi,  a  form  of  expression  peculiar  to  the 

EujiIIhIi  language. 
Aa'aala,  a  history  of  events  year  by  year. 
A*noin'a-l7f  an  irregularity ;  a  deviation  from 

law  or  rule. 
An'Ker>ine,  relating  to  or  resembling  a  goose. 
An-taf 'o<nlKtv  an  opponent ;  an  adversary. 
Aa-te«di-la'Tt>an,  existing  before  the  flood. 
An'them,  n  sacred  song. 
AB-thro*poph'a-gl,  canuibals. 
An'ti-dot«,  t lint  which  counteracts  the  effects 

of  any  drug. 
An'tres  */>«/«'«),  caves. 
A>o'ni-aB,   relating   to   Aonia,  a  country   of 

Greece,  sacred  to  the  Muses. 
Ap.pa-ra'tas,  instruments  or  utensils  provided 

for  the  performance  of  any  work. 
Ap-pa-ri'tioB,  a  supernatural  appearance;  a 

ghost. 
Ap-proX'I-ma'tlOB,  near  approach. 
A>qBat'Ic«  relating  to  the  water. 
Aq'ul^IiBe  {-liH  or  -/in),  resembling  an  eagle ; 

like  nn  eagle's  beak. 
Ar-ca'dl*a«  a  country  in  Greece,  noted  for  the 

simple,  peaceful  life  of  its  inhabitants. 
▲r'fBSf  a  billed  being  of  antiquity,  said  to  hare 

had  a  hnndred  eyes. 
Ar-lR*toc'ra-€]r,  goremment  by  the  nobles ;  tlie 

nobility. 
Ar*te'si*aB,   rcUting  to  Artois,  in  France;  a 

term  applied  to  wells  formed  by  boring  into 

the  earth. 
As-rea'dea-cy,  controlling  influence;  power. 
As«c«>t'Ir,  one  who  too  rigorously  applies  him- 
self to  reli'.'ions  practices. 
Ai-tlBl-l*la'tlOB«  the  art  of  bringing  to  a  like- 
ness. 
As^Im'*  >n  inquest ;  a  measure  or  adjustment 
Aa>trol'o-ger,  one  who  professes  to  foretell  fu- 

tun-  (Mints  liy  observing  the  stars. 
Ai'yaip-tote,  a  line  which  constantly  approadies 

a  curve,  but  which  can  never  meet  it. 
At-trib'ate,  to  assign  or  impute  to. 


404 


VOCABULAEY. 


km-T9'T%,  the  dawn,  or  »  light  in  the  henrent 

mrniblinj;  it. 
An'spl-c*ie«  to  foreshow. 
Aa-U-kl-Off'n-^j,  an  acoonnt  of  one's  own 

life. 
AVft-Uack«,  •  mass  of  snow  and  ice,  sliding 

down  a  moontnin. 
iT-a-tar',  tlM  descent  of  n  Hindoo  deity. 
A-M^k*  before  tiM  existence  of  animnl  life. 
Bar'/^toae* »  deep  msle  roice,  bnt  higher  then 

I  hi'  bsM. 
Ba-salt\  a  inreenish-bladc  stone. 
Ilaw  re  Her,cnnred  work  in  which  the  igme 

«tanil  partly  fh>m  the  sniiiMe. 
Bnt'tle-nieat,  the  npper  put  of  tke  waU  of  • 

fortihration.  notched  or  indented. 
Bny'oM,  an  inlet  of  the  sea,  eowMcUdwitk  iir> 

ers  or  Ukc«. 
Be-a-tirie,  prodacing  bliss. 
BeMlg'er-eai,  waging  war. 
Ben-o-dlc'ttoa,  act  of  pronoaaeiag  a  hlweiag. 
Be-a«f 'i-eeat,  doing  food. 
Bo>alf'al-ty,  kindness  of  diepositioa ;  good- 

will 
Bib'Ii>4«l,  reUtiniC  to  the  Bible. 
Bi*oir'ra-pky,  a  history  of  any  person's  lifie. 
Bi>oro>!ry«  the  icirnce  of  life. 
Bl'peds,  animals  liaving  two  legs. 
Bir'kie   Sfolck\,  a  rle»rr  fellow. 
BiT'oa>ae  (hie'ieat),  night  rest  of  soldiers  in  the 

open  air. 
Booa,  anything  granted  as  a  benefit  or  &Tor. 
Bo-re«a'lls,  rrlating  to  the  north ;  northern. 
Bowl'der,  a  large  mass  of  stone  worn  smooth 

bv  I  he  action  of  water. 
BrnkOf  a  place  overgrown  with  shmbe;   a 

thicket 
Bri*a're*aa,  a  fabled  giant  hanng  a  hnndred 

hniuiii. 
Bro^nde't  silk  stuff,  wrought  or  woTcn  with 

orn.-\iiit-uts. 
Bnrgk'er,  one  who  belongs  to  a  burgh,  or  cor- 

pnrate  town  ;  a  citizen. 
Bnr'f  o-mavteFf  a  Dutch  magistrate. 
Cara^bash,  a  \-essel  made  from  a  gourd. 
Cal-cine',  to  reduce  to  powder  bylieat 
Cnren*dar,  a  register  of  ths  year;  an  almanac- 
ra«lor'ic,  heat 
Ca'lyx,  n  flower-cup. 

Cam>palgn'er,  a  soldier  in  active  service. 
Can'on>iM,  to  declare  a  saint. 
Can 'on,  a  law  ;  catalogue  of  the  saints. 
Can'o^py,  aooreringover  the  head ;  an  awning 

or  tent. 
Can 'to,  a  division  of  a  poem. 
Can'yon,  a  gorge ;  a  ravine ;  a  gulch. 
(  a*par'i-80B,  trappings  for  a  horse. 


Car-a>Taa',  a  company  of  travelers  in  the  East 

Car*bOB>lf' er-OBB,  containing  carbon,  or  coal. 

Car'aage,  slaughter ;  bloodshed. 

Car'ai-Tal,  a  fesUval  celebrated  just  before 
Ix-nt 

Car>aiT'o>roas,  subsisting  on  flesh ;  flesh-eat- 
ing 

Caaqae,  a  helmet. 

Cas^'ra,  the  plant  from  which  tapioca  is  ob- 
tain<-d ;  manioc. 

Ca-ta«'tro>pke,  the  termiaation  of  an  e%ent ; 
a  diMAtrr. 

Cat'e>fO-i7,  a  class  of  things. 

Ca>tlie'dral,  the  principal  church  in  a  diocese. 

Ca-leb'ri-ty,  fome;  distiaetioa. 

Ca-iea'Ual.  hearealy. 

Cel'l*W^»  unmarried  state ;  single  life. 

Cea'eor«  a  veeed  for  burning  perfumes. 

Caa'aara,  bkune;  reproof ;  Jadgmeut 

Cha'aa,  a  confused  mass ;  distu^r. 

CIWHitMe,  in  a  state  of  chaos ;  disorganixed. 

Cki-ca'aer-y,  trickery;  deception. 

€hl*mer'l*ral,  fanciful ;  unreal. 

Ckir'al'roBS,  gallant ;  valiant ;  brave. 

Cklv'al'fT,  knighthood ;  gallantry. 

CI-ce>ro'ae  (eU-cke-rt^ me\  one  who  shows 
•trangrrs  the  curiosities  of  a  plaee. 

ClaHaM'rlHUM  very  black  or  dark. 

Clrocaanapae'tkNi,  caution ;  prudent  watch- 
fulness. 

CIt'Ic  civil ;  not  military ;  mnnicipal. 

€laai'or-«a8,  noisy. 

Claa-des'tlae  <->«•).  secret ;  underhand. 

Clangor,  a  loud  and  shnll  sound. 

Cll'max,  gradual  rise  ;  highest  point. 

Clols'ter,  a  convent ;  a  nunnery. 

Ca-a-iesee',  to  unite ;  to  blend  into  one. 

Cack'at,  a  eustom-koose  eertiflcate. 

Ca^'Tal,  of  the  same  age. 

Cog'l-tata,  to  think ;  to  meditate. 

Call,  a  series  of  rings  of  rope,  etc ;  noise  ;  tu- 
mult. 

CoI-lo'qnI-al,  conversational. 

Collo-^ay,  a  can\  ersation. 

Co-laa'sal,  like  the  CokMsns;  gigantic 

Ca-laa'si,  plural  of  Coloisiu ;  giants. 

Com-mem-o-ra'floa,  keeping  in  memory  by 
fimiial  rcU'liration. 

Com-pat'i-ble,  suiuble  to;  consistent  with. 

Con-cen'ter,  to  concentrate  ;  to  bring  into  one 
]M>ii.t. 

Con'crete.  firm  ;  solid ;  not  abstract 

Con-ge'nI-al.  of  the  same  nature,  or  disposi- 
tion. 

Con-jn-ra'tioB,  sorcery;  incantation. 

Con-san-gnin't-ty,  relationship  by  blood  or 
birth. 


VOCABULARY. 


405 


(  on-siTT  B>tir«,  opposed  to  change. 
Con-serr'a-to-rj,    a    place    for    preaerring 

tliiiiz-i .  !i  (;rffnliou»e. 
Con-Ktit'tt-PBt,  composing;  component. 
Con'suni-mate,  to  complete;  to  perfect. 
Con-tern '|>o«ra-rjr,  living  at  the  same  time, 
(on-text  ure,  t.-amework;  structure. 
Con-tl-fa'i-tjt  contact;  state  of  being  adja- 

ffiU.  I 

Con '  t  ■•ne-ljr*  scornful  treatment ;  diadai  n . 
Con-Tent'uonl,  relating  to  a  convent;  monas- 1 

('on-TorTB*lBa,a  vine;  bindweed. 
Coot  Scotch),  a  blockhead;  a  simpleton. 
('or-da«ro7',  a  thick  cotton  stuff,  having  a 

riljl)ctl  surface. 
Cor*rel'n>tlTe,  having  mutual  rebtions;  re- 

ciprDPal. 
Coarh'ant,  lying  down. 
Cra'Ten,  a  coward. 
Cre-dn'li*t7,    readiness    to   believe   without 

IIIDof. 

Cronpe  or  Cronp,  the  part  of  a  horse's  back 
li<liiiiti  till-  »ailiilr. 

Co'li-na-ry,  pertaining  to  cooking. 

Cu'po«la,  a  dome;  an  arched  roof. 

Cnr-ric  tt'laait  course  of  studies. 

Cjr'cle,  a  circle  of  time;  a  round  of  years;  a 
l,oml 

Cy-€lo«pe'aa,  pertaining  to  the  Cyclops,  a  fa- 
bled {(lant ;  huge. 

G7-clo>f«'di«»,  a  book  in  which  the  Tarions 
sricna's  are  treated. 

Cym'bnlSf  a  musical  instrument. 

De-brta  ydn-hre')  rubbish ;  remains ;  ruins. 

De><-Id'aH>M,  Calling  off;  not  evergreen  (^ 

Irrrsi 

D(>>ri'phpr,  to  unravel ;  to  explain. 

De-co'rum,  propriety  of  behavior ;  decency. 

De-rrep  it,  »«ak  from  old  age. 

I>e-durt'ire«ly,  by  deduction,  or  inference. 

I)pf-er>ea'tiai,  respectful. 

De-flect'«  to  turn  or  bend  aside. 

De-fnnet\  dead  ;  deceased. 

De  i-fled.  made  or  declared  a  god. 

De-more  ly,  s<)l>erly;  modestly. 

Ue-nom'1-nate,  to  name ;  to  entitle. 

De«  caai,  a  song ;  the  variation  of  an  air  or 
tiieludy. 

I>M'e<ret«,  to  aboae  what  ia  sacred ;  to  pro- 
fane. I 

DM'yot,  one  who  ndet  with  abaolotn  power ;  j 
a  tyrant.  i 

Des'al>to*r7, unconnected;  fttfnl;  wandering,  i 

De-vo'al-an,  pertaining  to  certain  geological  j 
«iinta  aiMiumling  in  Devonshire,  England. 

Dl'a-d^m.  .i  cmwu. 


Dl'a>lect,  a  form  of  language  peculiar  to  a 

place  or  district. 
DIe'tiOB,  style  of  language,  or  expression. 
DIght  {iiteu  dressed ;  adorned. 
DUgres'iiOBf  departure  from  the  main  subject. 
Dike,  a  ditch ;  a  mound  to  prevent  the  over- 

llow  of  water. 
Dil-et-tan'tl,  lovers  of  the  fine  arts. 
Di-min'n-tlTe,  of  small  size ;  little. 
Di-plo'ma-cy,  the  art  of  negotiating  treatiea. 
Dip-lo-mat'ic,  pertaining  to  diplomacy. 
DiN-com'flt-ed,  defeated. 
DIs-con-ccrt'ed,  frustrated ;  confused. 
Dis-en-cnm'ber,  to  disburden ;  to  set  free. 
Dis'lo«cate,  to  displace  ;  to  disjoint. 
Dis-par'age,  to  undervalue ;  to  depreciate. 
Dls^aI>«l'tioa,  a  discourse ;  a  treatise. 
Dls^seai'ble,  to  conceal ;  to  feign. 
]>ts-ser>ta'tloB,  a  discourse ;  a  treatise. 
Dis^sCT'er,  lu  disjoin ;  to  separate. 
Dis-HO-lu'tion,  decomposition ;  death. 
DU-tend'ed,  expanded;  enlarged. 
Dith-y>rani'bicSt  |>oems  of  a  wild,  enthusiastic 

character ;  [.anciently)  songs  to  Bacchus. 
DIt'ty,  a  song. 

Doi^'ma-tiam,  positiveness  of  assertion. 
Du'bi-ous-ly,  doubtfully;  with  uncertainty. 
Durci-mer,  a  kind  of  musical  instrument. 
Dy'nas'ty,  a  succession  of  sovereigns  of  the 

same  rare. 
Ec-c«B-trlc'i-ties,  peculiarities ;  oddities. 
Ec'lo^ne,  a  ])astoral  poem,  i.  e.  relating  to  shep- 
herds, or  the  country. 
E-roB'o-nlst,  one  who  studies  or  practicea 

cc«)iio.iiy. 
Ef*flB'Ti-a  (plural  of  efiuvium),  noxious  or 

noisome  exhalations. 
Ef-fnl'igeBce,  splendor;  brightness. 
E'ro-tixn,  e«)nceit ;  vanity. 
E-Jac-o-la'tion,  exclamation. 
E-lab'o-rate,  to  impmvc  or  perfect  by  labor. 
E-le'f  i-ae  >r  EI>«.9l'ae,  pertaining  to  an  elegy, 

or  t'unere«l  song  ;  plaintive. 
EItm  (plural  of  W/),  fairies. 
En-a-na'tloat  a  flowing  out ;  an  efflux. 
Eni-bla'zoned,  decked  with  slmwy  ornaments. 
E'mir    .^rnhic),  a  governor,  prince,  or  military 

fonimander. 
E-aioI'B>aieBi,  gain  ;  pecuniary  proAt. 
Eai-pir'i-riKBl,  dependence  on    experiment; 

qu.'irkiTV 

En-aBi'ored.  charmed ;  inflamed  with  love. 
En-eyr'li-ral,  rircular. 
Ea-dow'BieBt,  a  natural  gift. 
E-aer'Tit-Ml,  deprived  of  strength  ;  weakened. 
Ea-rraa'chlacd,  set  free;  admitted  aaafrec. 


406 


VOCABULARY. 


B.Mr' 

Eb  raihport'  (Frmek),  ia 

K-«a>n«r*a'tUa«  bw 

E«aaB.€l>a'ttOB,  aUeivasBi 

K'bb«  the  time  a  penoa  or  ihiag  exiaU ;  a  pe> 

nod  of  time ;  aa  tfc. 
E>l»hefli'e-ral,  lasting  for  a  day ;  of  ihort  da- 

nitiun. 
Ep'l<^nMi,  •  flhort,  witty  poem. 
Ep'l.a*d««  a  digreaakm. 
Ep*i-aod'l<«Bl,  pertaieing  to  an  eptiode. 
Ep'l-t  het,  K  iiniiie  ;  a  title ,  a  qnlffytif  tem. 
E^qai-llb'rt'BBi,  rvrn  balance;    eqaaUty  of 

wrijrlit. 
B^^Bl'Bae'tUl,  a  ftfi  circle  is  the  hflBTms  in 

thr  plane  of  the  eqaator. 
E^^BlppH't  furaiahed ;  arrayed. 
B'rm«  a  Kxed  poiat  or  period  of  tiaM ;  an  epoch. 
B-ra4'l-c«t«,  to  root  oat;  tetetny. 
E-ni^drttoa,  kBovledKoolilaiBed  froBi  books; 

Iraminf. 
E»«kew'lBf ,  avoidiag ;  shBaaiaf. 
Bi'tU>Ba4«,  a  clear  apace  oaed  fer  ittn  or 

walks 
Ka-tnuifad',  made  aafHaidly ;  alia— Hi 
■i^taWMT,  ariTeroramor  tke  ieiliwUdi 

tiic  ttde  riaea. 
Ea-lo'f  i>Ba,  IbnBal  pvaioa. 
EB'pko>By,  afrreeabla  amnid. 
■•TaB'lah'laa.  fleeting:  eraneaceat 
B-Tap-oofa'tioB,    pBaaing    away  ia  yvpn , 

rhnn%\nf,  lo  xapor. 
ET.«.lB'tlOB,  act  of  MBlimig. 

Ex'ra>Tate«  to  hollow  oal 

Ex^ckeq'aer.  treamiry. 

Ez*ka>la'tloB,  efllaTiam ;  vapor;  aleaflii. 

Ex*kira-rat>iBf( 

Ex'U|reB-cy,  di 

Bx*pa'tri-at«,  to  baaiak ;  to  expel  ftom  oae't 


Ex'pe^lta,  to 

Ex'pi-ata,  to  atoae  for ;  to  nmke  satisfoctioa. 

Ex'panfe',  to  blot  out 

Ex'taat^  existing. 

Ex'B'ber-aace,  great  abnndaucff ;  OTcrllowing 

plentv. 
Ex'B^da'tloa,  sweating ;  oozing  oat 
Fa  uSVf)/r*..  tall;  lot 

Fa^cll't'tate,  to  make  easy ;  to  remore  difficul- 
ties. 

Faa-tas'tiCf  faaciful;  whimsical. 

Far'delf  a  bundle;  a  pack  or  load  for  the 
l«rk 

Fas^ci'Ba'tloBi  charming ;  enchantment 

Fa.s-tid'f-oas,  over-nice ;  hard  to  pleaae. 

Fann    i/'//A  t,  a  god  of  fields  and  shepherda. 

Fe<aB'di*ty,  fruitfulucss ;  fertility. 


Pta'ial,  peitaiBiag  to  a  foai,  tkat  ia.  a  riskt  to 
lands  OB  eoaditioB  of  aenriee  to  a  aaperior. 

FI1bi'j«  composed  of  a  tkia  skia  or  web;  lika  a 
roliweb. 

ria't^al,  orer-niee ;  aibctedly  exaeL 

FIWaui-BieBtitbesky;  tbecaaopfortbBkeBreaa. 

nB'eai*lyt  in  a  ifowing.  easy  amaaer. 

Fo^raa'aie,  rebitiag  ta  eoana  of  Jaotlea,  or  la- 
gal  proceediaga. 

rta'sll,  a  sabotaace  in%  fima  tke  eartk. 

kT,  a  bratkar  or  —aibef  of  any  reUgloM 


Gal'ax>y,  the  milky-way. 

Garii-aH,  a  brisk,  gay  maa. 

GaFraa-laai,  electricity  prodaeed  by  ekoaical 
artioa. 

Gar'al'tara,  ftmUtare ;  adonuMat 

fiar»r«to',aaiioaeoUBraaailaaneatioBa:  a 
collar  of  theaai 

aMi-a.«ro.ty,  list  of  I 

0«a4lc>B>la'tloa,  art  of  makkig  gcatarea;  ao> 
tioB  aocprnpaaytag  apaick. 

fiBf'aaca.  kaiHar  apriaga  fai  lealaad. 

Gkaal,  aa  JaiagiaBiy  kafa«  sappaaed  to  pf«y 
apoe  kaaam  kodiea. 

GUJa,  aa  opea  apace  ia  a  forest 

eitat'ad,  f kneed ;  peeped  fettk. 

Gla'tl'B«aa,8tkky; 

tt«o'8a>aMr,  a  ii 
the  air. 

Qawd  .S<^/<-A),  gold. 

Gra^da'ttoa,  regular  progress,  step  by  step. 

flrapli'le,  vivid ;  lirely ;  well  drawn. 

Grat-a-la'tlaa,  cxpreasiag  joy  at  another's 
happiness  or  good  fortaae. 

Graa  (<>*«■ ).  good-will ;  rank ;  to  h<iir  the  fret, 
to  be  victor. 

Gra-tca«ae',  odd ;  IknciM. 

Gald  iS<-i,lck\  good. 

GBt'tB<raI,  relating  to  the  throat;  made  by 
I      the  throat. 

'  Gyai'Bas'tie,  relating  to  bodily  exercise ;  ath- 
I      letic 

!  Hack'aeyed,  worn  out  by  frequent  use. 
i  Ha'lo.  n  circle  of  light 

Hame'ly  Scotch),  homely, 
i  Har'bfB-fer.  a  forerunner. 

Harp'si-chord,  a  musical  instrument. 

He-red'i>ta'ry,  descending  by  inheritaace. 
I  Her-met'i-cal-ly,  perfectly  close; 
I      process. 

I  Hes-per'Mes  i.Vytk\  daughters  of  Atlas,  who 
I  owned  the  orchards  in  Africa,  in  which  golden 
I     fruit  grew. 


bv  chemical 


VOCABULARY. 


407 


Het'er-o^ox,  mntrnry  to  an  acknowledged  1 

Rtaiidnrd  i>t  irligious  doctrine. 
HI«e«rAr'rhy,  Mcrcd  government ;  the  priest- 

Ii.mmI. 

Hi<«-ro-gljph'les,  sacred  pictaie-writinff  of 

the  nm-i.  ni  Kjfvptiana. 
Hind,  a  pt^asAnt ;  n  servant. 
Hod'den  i.SrofrAi,  bumble. 
Hu'niid,  moist;  wet. 
HHN'band'Hr,  economy ;  farming. 
Hjr-po«thet'I-caI,  based  on  a  supposition,  or 

hv[M)tllf»IS. 

rdletwe,  idleness ;  sloth. 

I*de'al,  imaginary ;  unreal. 

If 'iie>o«s,  pertaining  to  fire  ;  fiery. 

IMiin'it*a«ble,  unbounded;  boundless. 

II-IU'er-«te,  unlearned  ;  uneducated. 

In'age^ry,  figures  of  speech ;   figurative  Ian- 

puns:. 
Ini.Bia>ts-biri>ty,  nnchangeableneM ;  atabil- 

it  V 
In-pal'pa-ble,  not  perceptible  to  the  toach. 
Im-pe-ra'tor  (Latin'i,  commander-in-chief. 
Im-plie'it.  implied  ;  undoubting  ;  firm. 
In-car'na-dine,  to  dye  red,  like  blood  orflesh. 
In>res'HaBt>ly,  unceasingly;  without  stopping. 
Iii>coni'pa-ra-ble,  matchless ;  unequaled. 
In-roa'gra-oas,  inconsistent ;  absurd. 
In-cor'po-rate,   to   unite  into  one  body;  to 

t'orm  iiit'>  n  Inxly  politic. 
lB«€re^a'll«t7,  readiness  to  beliere  withont 

sutlii-ieut  proof. 
iBocma-ta'tloB,  formation  of  a  crust  on  the 

surlarr. 
iB'Oin'bcB'ejr,  state  of  lying  or  resting  on 

Boinrtlmi;: ;  the  holding  of  an  office. 
iB'dec'o'.roaSf  unbecoming ;  indecent. 
lB'dff'1-Bite,  indistinct;  vague. 
iBoderi'bljf  90  as  not  to  be  erased;  incf- 

lni-al»l\ 
In-dirt  ment.  formal  charge,  or  accusation. 
In-dlN'iio-la*ble,  not  to  be  dissolved;  endur- 

la;: 
lB>doBi'It-a>bIe,  not  to  be  suMued ;  uncon- 

qut-rablr 
lB>dB'bt>ta-blf,  without  doubt;  unquestion- 
ably. 
lB-4Bc'tlre*lf ,  by  inference ;  by  the  inductive 

inc'li  )<l  of  reasoning. 
iB'Cf'fert'B'al,  without  producing  the  proper 

frt..-i  ;  rnii.K'As. 
lB*ea'tl«ma>ble,  pricrle^t ;  invaluable. 
lB>eT'i*ta-ble.  iiria\o:dable. 
lB*ex'or-a-bly,  tirmly  ;  so  as  not  to  b«  moved 

li\  cntrraty 
iB-fl'del'Mjr,  unfaithfulaeas ;  onbelief;  acq^ 
ttcisni. 


lB>flam'Bia«bIef  easily  set  on  fire. 
iB-gen'n-ona,  open  ;  frank ;  canduL 
Ia«i'ti>ate,  t<>  introduce;  to  In-gin. 
lB-BO<Ta'tioB,  change ;  introduction  of  a  nov- 
elty. '^ 
In-Rlg'ni-a,  badges  of  office ;  marks  of  distinc- 
tion. 
iB-slp'id,  tasteless. 
In'sB-lJB  (Latin),  islands ;  separrt«  honsea,  i.e. 

houses  standing  ak>ne. 
iB-teB'tire-Iy  (o»*.),  ctosely  ;  attentively. 
In>ter-mit'tent,  ceasing  for  a  time,  or  at  in- 
tervals. 
iB-tim'i-date,  to  make  afraid  ;  to  affright. 
In-tract'a«ble«  unmanageable;  obstinate. 
In-trin'sir,  internal;  real;  genuine. 
In-tn-i'tiOBf  immediate  perception  by  the  in- 
tellect ;  intuitive  knowledge. 
lB«ta'i-tlTe,  perceived  witliout  reasoning. 
iB'un-date,  to  overflow. 
la-nred',  accustomed. 
iB-vec'tlT©,  censure;  reproach;  abuse. 
lB-Tet'er-a-C7f   state  of  being  old;   chronic 

stale. 
iB-Tal'ner-a-ble,  not  to  be  wounded ;  secure 

from  injury. 
I'ro*ny,  saying  one  thing  and  meaning  another, 

ill  iiuickfry. 
Ir-ra'dl-ate,  to  enlighten  ;  to  illume. 
Ir-re-me'di-a-ble,  incurable ;  without  remedy. 
Ir-rep'a>ra-blet  not  to  be  repaired ;  irretriev- 

alii.. 
Ir-i-dea'rent,  having  the  cotor  of  the  rainbow. 
I'ris,  the  niinliow. 
la-o-Ia'tion,  detachment ;  separation  from  all 

others. 
I-tln'er-aat,  wandering;  traveling;  going  from 

place  to  place. 
Jai'miae,  a  climbing  plant  which  bears  very 

frngi-ant  flowers. 
Joc'a-Iarf  sportive  :  witty  ;  facetious. 
Joc'aad,  joyous ;  blithesome ;  gay. 
Jn-rtH-pra'deBre,  science  of  law. 
Ja'riatv  ""'"  versed  in  law  ;  a  lawyer 
Lab'y-riathf  an  edifice  full  of  winding  passa- 

(fcs  .  a  ma/.e. 
La*con'te«  brief;  in  the  manner  of  the  ancient 

.•spartan  8. 
La>fOoa%  a  birge  shaltow    bke,  having  an 

opininjr  into  the  sea. 
Laai'beat,  pUying  on  the  surflicc;  touching 

liv'lMly. 
Laad'fra-TiBe,  the  wife  of  a  Landgrave,  or 

Gcrm.-in  nobleman. 
La'tratf  concealed. 
Leath,  a  thong  of  leather,  by  which  a  dog  or 

other  animal  is  held. 


408 


VOCABULAEY. 


L«g'9u-6M-Tj*  fabokMB :  wt  •aOortie. 
L««Ti'a-thmB,  an  imoMBM  aateal ;  Um  whale 
LUrra'tioM,kioMi  distolBto;  vuMUaiBed. 
Llm'pid,  dear;  truupareBt 
LiB'e«a-BieaU«ouUine«;  fntore*. 
Lit'er*al-l7,  according  to  the  latter. 
Lord'llag,  a  petty  lord. 
Lore,  lcariiin{;. 
L«'i|.€TOaa,iai«hahla. 
Li'rM,  ghartly  pale ;  fkwaiy. 
Mal-laHi-hO'l<4r,  the  qaaUty  by  which  a  rab. 

etaace  may  be  hammered  out 
M*>Bl|Ka'U'UaB,    handiins;    working  with 

thehaad. 
MasMtahoaae;  apamaage;  abim. 
Maa-a>Mta'alMi,  aettiag  free, 
■ar'l-tlne,  pertaiaiag  to  the  tea;  aartee. 
■ari«  a  place  of  sale  or  traflte;  a  Buuiket 
lar'tyr,  one  wbo,  by  hia  de^  heart  witaces 

to  tlie  truth. 
■ar'tyr*4oai,  the  state  or  death  of  a  martyr, 
■aata,  the  fruit  of  a  fcreet  tree;  oaU;  aoonu- 
■••ter'aai,  relating  to  a  awtter ;  BKNherly. 
Nann'na  Sroteh),  matt  not 
■aB'iwle'aai,  a  large  and  qpleadid  toaib  or 

nKiniiincnt. 
■ed'l*ca*Bient,  aaything  need  to  heal  or  cure 

(liavaae. 
Me-41««e'rl*ty,  middle  state  or  degree. 
Ie'nl*al«  a  lerrant ;  a  domestic 
■ere,  a  pocil  or  lake. 
■et^a^Mor'phoae,  to  transform. 
■et'a-phor,  a  figure  of  speech  by  which  a 

ihiii!;  is  said  to  be  vliat  it  resembles. 
■e'ter,  rhythmical  arrangement ;  measure. 
Mewl'lag,  cr>-ing  like  a  young  child. 
MId'rib,  tlie  middle  rib,  as  of  a  leaf. 
■  U'len'nUal,  relating  to  the  millennium,  or 

period  uf  a  thousand  years  mentioned  in  the 

Scriptures. 
■I-Ba'ti*»,  details ;  minute  particulars. 
MI>rage',  a  deceptive  vision  seen  in  the  air. 
■Is'cre-aat,  a  vile  wretch  ;  an  infidel 
Mit'l>f  ate,  to  soften. 
Moe'ra-sia,  an  Indian's  shoe. 
Mod'i>raai,  a  small  quantity. 
Mod'a-Iate,  to  vary ;  to  change,  as  the  voice, 

from  oat?  key  to  another. 
Moa'as*ter-7,  a  place  of  religious  retirement ; 

an  abJiey  or  convent. 
Vo-mea'tum,  moving  force. 
Mon'o-dy,  i  mournful  song,  sungby  onepersnn. 
Mon-op'o-Ilze,  to  have  the  exclusive  right  of 

^•ili- ;  to  take  the  whole. 
Mon«op'o-Iy,  an  exclusive  right  of  sale. 
Mo<not'o>BOBS,  unvarying  in  sound ;  tedious. 
■OB'y  {Scotci),  many. 


■»«B'le,  inlaid  work,  ftmaed  by 
pieces  of  differently  ook>red  stoBes. 

■mImi  iJnMc),  MohaaUBedBB;  a  true  be- 
lievcr. 

■•aqae,  a  Turkish  or  ! 

MBl'tMonB,  having 

■BB'dBBO,    worldly; 

■B-Ble'i>pal,  pertaining  to  a  oorpontioBoreitr. 

Ma-ta'tloB,  cliange. 

■a'tMate,  to  maim  -,  to  dfcprire  oT  a  limb  or 
other  material  part. 

■ya'tlc,  obscure ;  unintelligible. 

mjtk,  a  fable. 

■jUt'l-cal,  fabulous. 

Mj-tlMl'B-gjr,  a  history  of  the  asdeBt  fhblea 


Rave,  the  middle  or  body  oTa  eharch 
He'o-pkyto*  a  bcw  eoBverti 

nuxicT. 
H**pea'tlMB,  a  drag  seed  by  the  ancieBts  to 

rrUrve  p«in. 
Ho«BMd'le,  wandering ;  pastoraL 
X«-M«a-«te'tara,  a  list  of  bbbm*  beloDgug  to 

a  partioUar  lentce  or  art 
If  9mm,  preecBt  call  or  occaaioB. 
Hyapk,  a  goddcH  al  the  BMaataiBa,  forests, 

Bieadows,  or  waters. 
0>MI'8Baee,  expresaioB  of  reject ;  a  bow ;  a 

ctiurtcsy. 
ObVIbk,  a  tall  and  slender  stone  pyramid. 
Oh-llq'al'ty,  deviation  from  a  right  line. 
Oh'llt'er-ate,  to  blot  out 
Oh-llr'l>OB,  forgetfulaeas. 
Oh'Io^ay,  censure. 
Ob-ac«B'l-ty»  indecency ;  impurity. 
Ob-se'4Bi>OBB-Bea8,  rauly  obedience;  senility. 
Ob'so-lete,  disused ;  neglected. 
Ob-tra'alre^ly,  without  invitatwn. 
Of'fl'claaa-Beaa,  excessive  zeal;  undue  for- 
wardness. 
Obi  i*B0BS,  threatening  eviL 
Om-nip'o-teBt,  all-powerfuL 
OB'er-OBB,  burdensome. 
Op'a-lcBt,  rich ;  wealthy. 
0-rae'a-lar,  like  an  oracle ;  positive. 
Oa>t«B-tB'tlOBSf  making  a  vam  display. 
Ox>y-hy'dro-feB,  produced  by  tlie  union  of 

oxygen  and  hydrogen  gas. 
Pa'aa,  «  song  of  victory. 
Pa^'eaat,  a  pompous  show  or  spectacle. 
Pal'e-tot '  p*d>e-to),  a  peasant's  frock;  a  loose 

overcoat. 
Pal'frey,  a  saddle-horse. 
Pal-la'di-luB,  a  saf^uard. 
Pal'pi-tate,  to  l»eat  or  throb  hke  the  heart. 
Paii-o*nim'ic,  preseuting  a  complete  view ; 

like  a  panorama. 


VOCABULAET. 


409 


PaB>Ui-l00B%  a  cbancter  in  a  comedy ;  a  buf- 
foon 

Par>a*boI'le,  expreaaed  bj  a  parable ;  figura- 
tive. 

Par'a^liata  (-tkoot),  a  machine  for  deacending 
fioiii  a  lialioon. 

Par'a^nonnt,  superior  to  all  othera. 

Tard,  tlie  leopard. 

Par'ox>7aBi,  fit;  sudden  and  acute  attack; 
ronvulsion. 

Par'Te>Ba,  an  upstart ;  one  who  has  become 
siiildfnly  rich. 

Pas'tor«al,  relating  to  shepherds ;  ruial. 

Pa*thol'o-f  7,  the  science  which  treats  of  dis- 

Pa'thoa,  fi'cling ;  passion ;  tender  emotion. 

Pa>trl'claB,  a  person  of  high  birth ;  a  noble- 
man. 

Pat'ri>mo-nr,  an  estate  inherited. 

IN'a.s'ant-rjr,  farmers;  country  people. 

P(>-ru'ni>a-rff  relating  to  money. 

Ped'a-fOf  ae,  a  teacher  of  children. 

Ped'aati  one  who  makes  a  vain  display  of  his 
it-aming. 

Ped'aat-ry,  a  rain  display  of  learning. 

Ped'i'f  re«,  lineofancestors;  dcscentor  lineage. 

Pelf,  inonev  ;  riches  ;  lucre  ;  gain. 

Pe«Ba't«8  '  LaliH),  the  household  gods  of  the 
ancient  Romans. 

Per>ad*TeB'tBref  perhaps;  perchance;  possi- 
bly. 

Per>aBi-bB-la'tloB,  walking  about  or  around ; 
tour 

P«r'ro>Iat«,  to  ooze ;  to  pass  in  drops ;  to  filter. 

Pet'di'tion,  ruin;  destruction. 

Per-en'nI-al,  tasting ;  perpetual. 

Per'fl-dy,  iait!i!e«<ini'ss ;  treachery. 

PerTo-rate,  to  pierce ;  to  bore. 

Pef'Blm'BiOBt  a  small  tree  bearing  a  plum-like 
fruit. 

Per>aoB«i>fl>«a'tIoa,  a  figure  by  which  inani- 
mate ol»jerts  are  represented  as  having  life 
and  intelligence. 

Per«apie'a*OBa,  clear;  easily  understood. 

Pet'H-fy,  'o  plian-fp  into  stone. 

Phan-ta.H«ma>f  o'rUa,  optical  illusions  ;  magic 

Inntiiii 

Phr-Bom'e-na   plural  of /iA<>>Knii«ii«ii),  appear- 

nucr* 

Phll>an'thro>pUt,  a  lorer  of  mankind. 
Pliren>oro*g7,  ^> '  science  of  determining  char- 

aeter  l.y  olj-Knatlon  of  the  head  or  skull. 
Phya-i^HT 'BO>Biy,  diseerament  of  character  by 

till-  fare  ;   the  faee. 
PIfd    pH'-t,  varictrated. 
rin'na>rle,  the  highest  point ;  the  summit 
Plen'Made,  fullness ;  abundance. 


FlB'tOB'te,  pertaining  to  Pluto;  igneoua. 
PoMa'tioB,  corruption  ;  defilement.    • 
Pol-y>syl'lB*blet  <^  '"ord  of  four  or  more  aylla* 

hi.-.s. 

Pon'der>oa»,  heavy ;  weighty. 

Pon'tiff,  a  l^gh  priest. 

Por'phy«ry,  a  kind  of  rock  or  stone. 

Port'ance,  air ;  mien  ;  demeanor. 

Por'ti-co,  a  porch  ;  a  covered  space  at  the  en* 
trance  of  a  building. 

Po*8a'da  [Spanish],  an  inn  or  tavern. 

Po'ten-cy,  power ;  strength. 

Po-ten-tUal'i-ty,  state  of  having  power;  pos- 
sibility not  reality. 

Prac-ti'tiOB*«r,  one  who  practices  an  art  or 
profession. 

Pre>ea'rI*0B8t  doubtful ;  depending  upon  an- 
other's will. 

Prec'e-dent,  something  used  as  an  authoritative 
e,vam|(le. 

Pre«con-c«rt',  to  consider  and  agree  upon  be- 
forehand. 

Pred'e-ceaa'or,  one  who  precedes  another  in 
an  ortice. 

Pre-doBi'l>Batef  to  prevail ;  to  rule. 

Pre^emp'tloB,  the  right  of  purchasing  before 
otliers. 

PreJ-n>di'cial,  injurious ;  detrimental. 

Pre>lini'i>na-ry,  introductory. 

Pre'ma-tnre,  ripe  before  the  time  ;  unseason- 
able. 

Pre*Bion'i>to«ry,  warning  beforehand ;  giving 
previou.s  notice. 

Pre-or-daln',  to  ordain  or  decree  beforehand. 

Pre-pos'ter-onu,  invertetl  in  order;  absurd. 

Pre>8en'tl>ment,  a  notion  of  what  is  about  to 
occur. 

Pre>ter-Bat'n-ral,  beyond  what  is  natural ; 
strange. 

Pr{-Bio«geB'i>tBre,  state  of  being  bom  firat 

Pris'tlae,  original ;  primitive. 

Prod'Ngal,  wasteful. 

Pro-ren'l-tor,  a  father ;  an  ancestor. 

Pro'if e-ny,  offspring ;  children. 

Pro-Ra'Ic,  pertaining  to  proae;  dull;  uninter- 
esting. 

Pro't*>aB,  assuming  different  forma;  like  PiO' 
t«  u^* 

Pro-tu'her>aBt^  projecting. 

Pra-Bel'la,  a  woolen  stuff  used  for  making 

sho:-*. 

PaaI'Bio>dy,  the  singing  of  psalms  or  hymns. 
Pay-cho-loffi-eal,  relating  to  psychology,  or 

111-  Sri  .nee  of  the  soul. 
Par'bllBdt  near-sighted ;  dim-sighted. 
Pyir'Bi7«  one  of  a  race  of  dwarfs  ;  a  dwarf. 
<{amfft  to  drink  in  large  dranghta. 


410 


VOCABULARY. 


Qnaf 'mire,  aoft.  wet  Imnd. 
({■••t«r' ■!••■,  »  Mt  of  fonr  thiagi. 
<{«l-«'Ui*t  rest;  death;  that  whieh  lilenee* 

i-lajiii4. 
Ba'pl'Cr,  a  lijjht  (word. 
BeK«*ptt-a«U'tioB,  a  tammary  of  the  chief 

h  -Alls  of  a  ditcoune. 
Re^ip'l>eat,  one  who  reeeire*. 
Be-f rac'to-i7,  obatinate ;  diaobedient 
Be«lt'f  r-ate,  U)  repeat  again  and  afaia. 
Bel'e*TaB-cj,  state  of  being  applicable  or  per- 

tinrnl. 
BeM-i«alfl'eeBM«  remembrance ;  that  which 

rcrnlU  to  the  mind. 
Be^pag'saat,  hoatile ;  oppoaed. 
Be  qit^til,  pajrment ;  recompen«e. 
B««-mr-r«e'ti«B,  act  of  rising  from  the  dead. 
B«t'l*«eaee,  keeping  silence ;  abstinence  from 

sperrh. 
Be-irlb'n*tO>r7«  affording  reward ;  iMldngre- 

pajment.  or  a  jost  return. 
BeT'e«nne,  annual  rents ;  income. 
Be-Ter'ber-Ato,  to  resonnd ;  to  echo. 
Rhap's<MllM,  to  utter  wild,  rambling  thoughts 

t»r  si*i)t«-nc«s. 
Khet'or-lr,  thr  art  of  composition,  or  oratory. 
Bho-do-den'droB,  a   shmb    bearing   showy 

llower*. 
Bhytlim,  measure;  harmoaioas  low  of  lan- 

Bo'ae^te*  full  of  rases ;  of  a  rose  color. 

Bo't«-ry,  turning  like  a  wheel. 

Uonu'de-lay,  a  kind  of  song  or  dance. 

Knb'ble,  fragmmts  of  stone  or  rock. 

Ba'atCt  pertaining  to  the  Rones, or  inacriptiotts 
of  the  ancient  Norsemen. 

BBs>tic'l>ty«  state  of  bang  rustic ;  eoarseaeas. 

8a-liae',  ctHttaining  salt 

8a-ll'Ta,  spittle. 

Saae'ta<«-ry,  a  sacred  place;  a  church  or  al- 
tar ;  a  place  of  reftige. 

Saa'fBlB-a-ry,  bloody;  blood-thirsty;  eager 
to  sited  blood. 

Sans  Frrnck),  witbont. 

Sap'phire,  a  precious  stone  of  a  blue  color. 

Sarce'aett  a  kind  of  thin  silk,  used  for  linings, 
riUlions,  etc. 

Sar-doa'ic^  forced  (said  of  a  laugh  that  is  as- 
sumed to  conceal  pain). 

Sat/ire,  a  poem  ridicoling  rice  or  folly. 

Sa'tyr*  a  deity  of  the  woods,  represented  as  half 
man  and  half  goat. 

Saul  Sctrh),  souL 

Sa-ran'na,  an  extensive  grassy  plain. 

School'mea,  men  taught  in  the  schools  of  the 
middle  ages,  who  disputed  on  nice  points  of 
logic  and  theology. 


SeyaiVtar  or  Ctii'e-ter,  a  Turkish  sword  of 
a  lient  furm. 

8««eret«'t  to  separate ;  to  eoaceal. 

8ec'a>lar,  worldly ;  temporal ;  occurring  once 
in  an  age. 

8e4'l-Bi«Bi,  dregs ;  grounds ;  settlings. 

Se^'iioa,  opposttioa  to  the  goverament ;  re- 
bellion. 

Smth'iBf ,  boilhig. 

Hrn-ten'tious,  full  of  meaning;  expreasive. 

8ep'nl>cher,  a  tomb. 

8erf ,  a  slave  attached  to  the  soil ;  a  bond-serrant 

Ser'Tlle,  slavish. 

Shaai'bleat  the  place  where  buteher't  BMat  is 

Miid 

Shelkt  an  Arabian  chief. 

Skla'f  la«  a  coUrcton  of  stoaea  wora  mooth  by 
the  action  of  water,  as  found  on  coasts. 

8l'ea-lte  or  8y'ea*lt««  stone  composed  of 
quartz,  hornblende,  and  feldspar. 

Sl'Cr'ra  [SpamUk),  a  saw ;  a  mountain  chain. 

Slyaior  (teeu'ymr),  a  title  of  respect  among  the 
liatiana;  Sir;  Mr. 

8U'lia«-«tt«  {sil'ao^i),  the  outlines  of  an  ob- 
ject, filled  in  with  black. 

8i«|«'all  or  Sn'o^Ef  name  of  a  pool  or  fountain 
in  Jerusalem. 

81«la'rl-aBt  reUting  to  the  Silures,  a  people  of 
Wales ;  hence  applied  to  the  geological  stratum 
found  in  that  oouatry. 

Siai'UIe,  a  compariaoa. 

Slai'aier,  to  boO  geaUy. 

Slas'per,  to  smile  in  an  affected  manner. 

SIa'a*otu,  bending  in  and  out ;  winding. 

So'Joara,  stay  ;  temporary  abode. 

8o*liro^ay,  a  talking  to  one's  self 

SoBi'erHMt^  a  leap  heels  over  head. 

8««ao'roaa,  loud  sounding;  giving  a  clear 
sound. 

8oph'ls>try,  false  and  deceitful  reasoning. 

Sor'tle,  a  sudden  sally  of  troops  from  a  fortress 
or  entrenchment. 

Spe'cioaa,  apparently  right ;  plausible. 

StJi-tis'tl>eal,  exactly  suted  and  dassified. 
es|>erially  in  numbers. 

Stat'u-a-ry,  a  sculptor. 

Sten-to'ri-aa,  extremely  loud. 

Ste-rll'i-ty,  barrenness;  unfruitfulness. 

Ster'to-rous,  hoarsely  breathing ;  snorinj. 

Sti'pend,  salary ;  wages. 

Stlp'U'Iate,  to  bargain  ;  to  agree. 

Stra'ta    plural  of  stratum),  layers. 

Strat'e-gy,  science  of  military  command ;  gen- 
eralship. 

Strat'i'fled,  laid  in  strata,  or  layers. 

Strin'gent,  binding;  strict;  rigorous. 

Sta-pen'dOBS,  astonishing ;  wonderful. 


VOCABULARY. 


411 


8ab-Ja*fra'tloB,  ronqnest ;  tabjeetion. 
Sab-mer'Kf>iire,  putting  under  water;  inanda- 

ti-.ii 
8Bb«or*di-Ba'tlon,  inferiority  of  rank  or  dig> 

nity ;  Kubjeetion. 
8Bb-s«r'Tl>«Btt  promoting  a  particular  end; 

■ylM>n.i:in  c 
8«b«tci>ni'Be*aB,  under  the  surface  of  tbe 

earth. 
Sab'tiNtj,  tliinness;  craA  ;  artifice. 
8a*per-flH'l*ty,    a  greater  quantity   than   is 

uccUcd ;  »U[>i-i-al>undaucc. 
8a*per-lB*€aB'beBt,  lying  or  resting  upon 

•oiiiethiug  else. 
8ar-charf  e',  to  overload. 
8]rrTaB,  pertaining  to  woods  or  foresU. 
8yBi'Bie-try,  a  due  proportion  of  parts;  beauty. 
8yBi'pho-By,  haniiony  of  sounds;  a  musical 

euiiiiMMitiou  fur  a  full  orchestra. 
8yB'B>f  ogBe,  a  congregation  of  Jews ;  a  Jew- 

liih  cliurch. 
8yB'o<ByBi,  one  of  two  or  more  words  of  a  lan- 
guage- w  Inch  have  the  same  uieauiug. 
8yB'the*sis,  composition  ;  putting  together. 
8y«rlB'ga,  a  genus  or  faiuily  of  plants. 
8y»'teBi>B*tixet    to  reduce  to  a  system;    to 

nu-thixlizi*. 
Tal'U'BBB,  something  used  or  worn  to  avert 

or  repel  evil;  a  charm. 
Tma'fi'ble,  perceptible  by  the  toudi ;  substan- 

Mal. 
TaB'tB'llxe,  to  tease  or  torment,  by  disappoint- 

in-r  h<i|>e  or  expectation. 
Tap' root,  the  main  root  of  a  plant 
Tat-too\al>catin<;of  the  drum,  as  a  military  sig- 
nal :  marks  made  on  the  flesh  by  pricking  in 

fluids  of  difl"crent  colors. 
Teck'Bl-fsl,  pertaining  to  a  particolar  art  or 

profession. 
Te^Bii,  the  year  of  obc's  age  having  the  tenni- 

naii  in  tren. 
Te>Bi*r'l>t]r«  rashness ;  reckleasneu. 
TeB'dril,  shoot  of  a  creeping  pUutt.osed  for  its 

BUplHirt 

TeH>«eBl'n,  name  of  a  Mexican  temple;  liter- 
nllif,  hou«r  nf  God. 

Tei>rM'trl*al,  pertaining  to  the  earth ;  earthly. 

Terse,  nmrise ;  compact  and  elegant. 

Thes>ro-fj«  true  doctrine  relating  to  God: 
divinity. 

Tke'o-raBi,  a  truth  or  propodtion  tobe  demon- 
si  mtrtl. 

The'o«ry.  a  dnrtrine  or  scheme;  a  speculation 

Ther>moBi'eotar,  an  instrument  for  measoring 
till-  icMipimiiire  of  the  air. 

Throt'Ue>Talre,  the  valve  oaed  to  regalate 
tbe  supply  of  steam  in  a  tteam-tafine. 


I  TiB.tiB-Bab-B.Ia'tlOB,  tinkUng.  aa  of  bclla. 
lia'aae,  laoric ;  structure;  composite  substance. 
Ttt'B-lar,  giving  a  name  or  title  ;  relating  to  a 

ml.-. 
Tra-dT'tloa,  oral  report  from  one  generation  to 

atU'ther. 
TranoSMBd'eat,  surpassing ;  unequaled. 
Traa'aept,  the  part  of  a  church  that  project* 

at  right  anuli-s  from  the  lx)dy. 
TranN>i>to'ry,  passing;  fleeting;  short-lived. 
Tren'B'loQR,  trembling;  quivering. 
Trep-i-da'tion,  a  trtnililing  from  fear;  alarm. 
Tri'as'Hlc,  pertaining  to  a  geological  stratum, 

rnllt-d  tiie  triaa. 
Trib-n*Bi'cIaB,  pertaining  to  tribunes. 
Trl'col-or,   the   French  flag  of  three  colors  ; 

any  three-colored  flag. 
Tri'tOB,  a  fabled  sea  deity  of  tbe  ancient  my- 

Ihology. 
Trit'B'ratOf  to  reduce  to  powder  by  grinding 

or  rubbing. 
Tron'baMlOBr,  a  minstrel  of  the  South  of  France, 

durinj:  the  Middle  Ages. 
Typ'l-eal,  emblematic ;  figurative. 
Vrtl-nate,  last ;  final. 
Ul*tra-ma«rlBe'v  blue ;  a  blue  pigment. 
1J>l78«Be'aB,  pertaining  to  Ulysses,  a  famous 

Greek  hero  and  king. 
UB-al-loyed',  pure ;  genuine ;  unmixed. 
UB-bi'ased,  impartial;  nut  influenced  by  either 

parly. 
DBc'tlOB,  ointment ;  act  of  anointing ;  fervor. 
U-Biqne'  i-nerk),  single  ;  unmatched. 
CB>mit'l-ga-fed,  not  softened;  unmodified. 
UB«pre-med'l-tat-ed,   unstudied  ;    ufT-hand  ; 

I  x(eni)Miranc4)U8. 
VoteB'silt  auytliing  used;  an   implement;  a 

Arssel. 
V'tlMze,  to  npply  to  a  useful  purpose. 
Tac-Il-la'tiOB,  art  of  wavering. 
Tal*e*tB*di-na'r{-aB,  an   invalid;    a  person 

serkiiti;  to  retrovcr  health. 
Taa'saU  "  dependant ;  a  liondman ;  a  tenant 
Tat'NfBB,  the  palace  of  the  Pope,  at  Borne. 
Te'he*BieBt,  forcible ;  violent. 
Ter'l-ta-b!«,  true  ;  real ;  positive. 
Tea'l-cle,  a  small  bladder. 
Teafare,  a  garment ;  clothing. 
Tl'a>dactv  A  structure  for  carrying  a  railway 

nen»«*  a  valley  or  river. 
Ti'a  La'U  (LatiH),  a  broad  street 
Tl'ee   Yer'aa  (Latim),  the  terms  being  ex- 

ehanif-il 
TI«cls'sl*tBde8,  regular  changes  or  alterna- 
tions. 
Tlr'B»leaee«  activity  in  doing  injury ;  extreme 

malignity. 


412 


VOCABULARY. 


Tll'ta*  •  view  throQfh  an 
Ti-fa'dMS,  lirelv ;  tpri%htlj. 
Tl'Tie'l'tj,  liveliDfiM ;  aiUaurtioa. 
ViT'lofjr,  to  animate;  to  make  alire. 
lO'CMb'm-lM-rjt  a  list  of  words ;  a  dietwury. 

▼o-Ib'hiUbOM,  of  BMBJ  TolUMti  bvlkj. 

Wa>'iall-«r,  a  rerdor ;  a  JthnAet 

Wa'tcr-Kerple,  a  water-spirit 

WUrd,  •upcruatural  -,  caused  by  magical  inllo- 


Wlvkt,  a  persoo ;  a  i 
ironj  or  borlesqae. 


toanjoneiB 


WlM^'ero*  one  who  pretends  to 
witling. 

Wbt'fnl,  mnsini 

TM'Mna,  a  farmer ;  i 

Tore,  long  since ;  in 

Xe'nlUi,  the  point  directlj  orerbani. 

Zln'gft-rli  {Itmlimm).  gypsies. 

Zo'dl>ae,  the  space  frtmding  ei^t  degrees  on 
each  side  of  the  eeUptie,  whieh  «wft*afw  the 
orbits  of  the  luge  primary  planets. 


A    DICTIONARY 


Oy  80MS  OT 


THE  MOST  FAMILIAR  OF  BRITISH  AND  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 


In  noting  the  nationalities  in  this  Dictionary  it  has  been  found  that  some  aathon  have 
lived  and  labored  in  more  countries  than  one ;  that  the  birthplaces  of  some  have  not  been  the 
scenes  of  their  literary  successes ;  and  that  in  a  number  of  cases  the  places  of  birth  are  no- 
where stated.  In  like  manner,  in  the  matter  of  dates,  in  some  cases,  especially  in  the  earlier 
periods,  uncertainty  has  been  found  among  the  best  authorities  ;  and  iu  not  a  few,  conflicts  of 
opinion  appear.  In  all  such  cases  — both  matters  of  nationalities  and  dates  — the  weight  of 
authority  has  been  carefully  weighed  and  the  best  attainable  results  given. 

The  fallowing  abbreviations  have  been  used,  together  with  a  few  others  apparently  too  ob- 
rious  to  need  pointing  oat,  —  the  adjectives  indicating  departments  of  literary  work  -.  — 


A American. 

Antiq Antiquarian. 

Biog Biof^raphical. 

Crit. Criiical. 

Dip Diplonialic. 

Domes Domestic. 

Dram... Dramatic 

E Eiifrlish. 

Eron Economy. 

Ed Educational. 

Edit  Editorial. 


Ess Essay. 

Esth Esthctical. 

Eih Ethical. 

Kc Kclitious. 

/. Irish. 

Lit Literature,  Literary. 

Med Medical. 

Mcta. Metaphysical. 

Mis Miscellaneous. 

Philol Philological. 


Philos PhilosophicaL 

Poet Poetical. 

Pol Political. 

Rcl Religious. 

5 Scotch. 

Sat Satirical. 

Sci Scientific. 

ITieol Theological. 

Trav Travels. 

W. Welsh. 


Abbott,  Jacob.   A     1803-        .    Rel.andFic. 
Abbott,  Joha  8.  C.    A.    1805-        .    Biog.. 

llist.,  and  Kir. 
Aberrronbie,  Joha.   S.    1736    1806.    Ilorti- 

<ull 

Abercroiable,  Joha.    S.    1781  - 1844.     Med 

and  Mcta. 
Adam,  CIum.  F.    ^.    1807-        .    Pol. 
Adans,  ilanaah.    A.    1755    1833.    ReL 
Adams,  John.    A.    1735    1826.     PoL 
Adams,  John  Q.    A.    1767    1S48.    Pol.,  Rel , 

ami  \'<>t 
Adams.    Ttehfmiah.     A.    1806-        .     Bel. 

Ili.>«^  .  .ii»d  Kic. 
ki»m%,y(m.T. (Oliver Oplie).  A.  182a- 

Fic.  niul  Trat. 
Addlaoa,  Joa.    E     1672- 1719.    Ess.,  Poet., 

anil  Dram. 
Affaaals,  Loala  J.  B.    A.    1807- 1874.     Sci. 

and  Trav. 
Agallar,  Grae«.     E.    i8t6    1847     Pic 
Aiasnortb.  Wm.  H.    B.    1805-        .    FIc 
Akennldr.  Hark.    K.    1731  -  177a    Poet 
Alrott,  Ix>alaa  M.    A.    183a-        .    Fie 
Aides,  Jos.    A     1807-        .    Eth. 


Aldrlch^Thoii.  B.   ^.1836-        .    Poet  and 

Fie. 
Alexander,  A.   A.  1772-1851.    Rel.andHist 
Alexander,  Jos.  A.    A.    1809-1860.    Rel. 
Alford.  lionry.    1810-1871.    Thcol. and  Poet. 
Alger,  Wm.  R.    A.    1823-        .    Theol.and 

Mis. 
AIlMB.A.  S.  1757 -«839-   Esth.,  Rel., and  Biog. 
AUaoB,SlrA.   S.  179a- 1867.   HUt.Law.and 

Pol. 
Allibone,  8.  A.    A.    1816-        .    Biog. 
AUatOB,  W.    A.    1779-1843.    Art 
Alaop,  B.    A.    1761  -  1815     Poet 
A«ea,  nsher.    A.    1758  - 1808.    Pol. 
Aadrews,  Prof.  E.  A.    A.    1787-1858.    Ed. 
Aagell,  Jofi.  K.    A.    1794    «857-    Law- 
Aathon.  ChaM.     A.    1797-1867.    Ed. 
Arbathnot.   Joha.     E.     1675-1734.    Phy*. 

and  Sat. 
Arnold,  Matthew.  E.    1822—      .    Poet  and 

Ess 
AraoldfThOO.    E.   1795-1842.   Hist  and  ReL 
Araold,  Thoa.  K.    If.    1800-1853     Ed. 
Arthar,  T.  S.    A.    1809-  Fie 

lAachan,  Roger.    B.    i5iS->Sfi9-    *^ 


414 


DICTIONARY   OF   AUTHORS. 


Trmr 
Biug.  aDil 

AaUq.ud 

Otst.  £u.. 


AaivkM,  J«iB  J.    A.    1783-1851     Sci 
AMtea,  Jaae.    E.    1775  - 1817    >ic 
Ajrtoai,   Wa.  B.     6*.    1813    1865.     Poet, 

Drmtu..  aud  Biog. 
Babbairr.  Chan.    E.    1790-        .    Sd. 
BarliBiaB,JoliB.  A.  1790    1874.  SeLaadRd. 
Baroa,   Fraacb   KVi»c<mmt   of  St.   JlUmt). 

K.    1561    1616.  Philoa..8ci.,Law,aBdE». 
Bacoa,  Leaaard.    A.   180a-       .    Tbeol., 

Hut.,  and  Kw. 
Ball«f,  Pklllp  J.   X.    1816-       .    Put 
Batniet  JaMiaa.  5.    1764    1851.    Dram. 
Balrd,  Bokert.  A.  1798    t86>   Rel.  and  Hist 
Baker,  Daaiel.    A.    1791    1837-    BcL 
Baker,  Kir  Saai.  W.    E.  t8at- 
Bakcr,  Wa.  I.    A.   18J5- 

Rrl. 

BaliwiB,  i.  B.    il.    1810- 

Poet 
Baacroft,  Geo.    A.   1800 > 

«nU  Poet 
BftBlai,  Joka.   /    1S00-184X   Fie.  and  Dram. 
BarkMld,  Aau  L.    E.    1743    1825      Eaa.. 

Bug ,  ajtd  Poet 
BarkMi,  B.I.    B.    1788-1845.    Poet 
Barlow,  JoeL    A.    1755    i8ix    Fact. 
Baraea,  A.    A.    1798  -  187a    BeL 
Barraw,  laaac.  £    1630    1677.    Sd.  and  Rel. 
Barrow,  Sir  Joka.    E.    1764-1848.    Trar. 
Baxter,  R.    E     1615    1691     TbeoL 
Bayly,  Tkoa.  H.    E    1797    1839.    Fie.  Ptoet., 

anil  Dram. 
Bayae,  Peter.    5.   Em.  and  Bd. 
Beattle,  Jamea.    S     1735  - 1803.    Poet  and 

Beaamont,  F.    E.    1586-1616    Dram,  and 

Poft. 

Beckett,  Gilbert  A.  i.  E.  1810  - 1856.  Diam 

and  Mis 
Beekford,  Wai.    E     1760    1844    Rc  Biof .. 

and  Trav. 
Beecker,  Catkeriae  K.   A.    1800-        .    Do- 

nirs.  and  V.nm. 
Beecker,  Ckas,    A.    tSio-        .    Bd. 
Beecker,  Heary  W.    A.    1813-        .    Rd, 

Th«»l.,  nr)d  Kir. 
Beecker.  Lyman.    A    1775- »863     Rd. 
Beka,  Apkra.    E.    1642    1689     Dram.,  Poet., 

and  Fir. 
BeH.  Sir  Ckaa.    5     1778-1842.    Sci. 
Bellows.  Henry  W.    A    1814-        .    Theol. 
Benjamin.  Park.    A.    1809    1864     Poet 
Bennett.  J.  G.    A.    1800-1872     Joomalist. 
Bentham.   Jeremy.     B.    1748-1832.     Pol 

anil  L:nv 
Beatley,  Blckard    Ihf  British  AritUtrckus) 

E     1662-  1742     Crit  and  Ess. 


Beaton, Tkoa.  H.    A.    1782-1858.    Poland 

Barkelay,  Geo.  ■  /?-«A<^  0/  ch^nr)     I.   1684  - 

1753      riiilu*  ,  Tlutd.,  and  I'oct 
Batkaae,  Geo.  W.    A     1805  - 186«    BeL  and 

I'mt 

Blckeratetk,  E.    E.    1786-185^    Bd. 
Blgalaw,  Jaha.    A.    1817-       .    PoL  and 

Biufc. 
BIH,  B«bart  M.    A     1805-1854.    Fie.  and 

DruM. 
Blackkara,  Wm.  H.    ^     1828-        .    ReL 

and  Kir. 

Blackle,Jolui8.    5    1809-        .    Ew..Crit, 

and  Piitrt 
Blarklock,  Tkaa.    S.    1721-1791     Poet 
Blackatoae,  Sir  Wai.    E    1723-1780    Law. 
Blair,  Hagk.    S     1718- i8no     Throl.   and 

Crit 
Blair,  Robert.    ."•'    169.^ 
Biaailaftoa,  Caaataaa  af.    i     i7»->-i849. 

Fir..  Trav  ,  and  Mia. 
BiaaainaM,  R«bart.    E    1766-1823    Pbet 
Baker,  ««•.  H.    J     18.4-        .    Dram. and 

Port. 
Boliaf brake,  Heary  St.  Jaka  (FimimO- 

/•;     1678-1751      Put.  and  Hist 
Barrow,  Geo.  E.  1803  -        .    Fir.  and  Trar. 
Boawell,  Jaa.    S.    1740- t79S-    B>°K- 
Boarler,  Joka.    A.    1787-1851.    Law. 
Bowdltck,  !fatk*l.    A.    1773    1838.    ScL 
Bowlea,  Wm.  L.  E.  1762-  1850.  Poet.Estk.. 

Rfl ,  »n  t  Bio»;. 
Bawrtaf ,  Sir  laka.  E.  1791-1872.   Phite!., 

TlicoL.  Polit  Econ.,  and  Mei. 
Bayd,  Aadraw  K.  H.   S    1825- 

aadMs 
Bayla,  lakart.   /    1627-1691    Sri.  and  ReL 
Bradstreet,  Aaae.    A.     1612-1672     Poet 
Br^klaridge,  R.  J.    A    1800-1871    TheoL 

and  Trav. 
Brewster,  Sir  DarM.    5    1781  - 1868.    ScL 

and  Bitxr. 
Briated,  Ckaa.  A.    A    1820-1874     Ess.  and 

Mis 
BraaU,  Ckarlotta.  E    1816-1855.    Fie.  and 

Port. 
Bracks,  Ckas.  T.    A    1813-  Poet  and 

I         Trans. 

I  Brooks.  Maria.    A.    1795-1845     ^^^ 
;  Brooks,  If .  C.    A.   1809-  Ed.  and  Hist 

Brooks,  C.  Skirley.    E.    1S15-1874.    Dram. 

and  Fie. 
Broafkam,  Henry  (Lori).    S.    1778- 1868. 

Biog.,  Th«)l  .  Hist.,  and  Pol. 
Broagkam,   Joka.    /      1814-  Dram. 

i         aud  Fie. 


DICTIONAEY    OF    AUTHORS. 


11 


Browa,  €Iuu.  Brorkdea.     A.     1774 -1810. 

Fie.  and  Pol. 
Brown,  DsTid  Paul.    A     1795- 1873     Urani 

aiul  Mis 
BrowB,  ThoH.    S.     1778- itaa    MeUu.  £llt.. 

ami  PiM'l. 
Browne,  Kir  Thmk    B.    1605-1683.    Tbcul. 

and  K>.-4 
Browning,  Elixaboth  B.     E.     1807- 1861 

I'uet.  and  Km. 
Browninf,  Eobert.    E.    1812-        .     Poet. 

and  Drain. 
BrowDKOn,  OrMtM  A.    A.    1803-        .    Fie. 

and  1  liiiti. 
Brnee,  Jm.    S.    1730-1794.    Trav. 
Bryan,  Marj  E.    A.    Poet. 
Bryant,  Wn.  C.  A.  1794-        .  Poet-.Trar, 

and  lli:ii. 
Brydget,  Sir  Sam.  E.    £.    1763-1837.    Fie., 

'Irav.,  and  Poet. 
Buchanan,  Geo.    S.    1506-1582.     Hist,  and 

l'«x;t. 
Buchanan,  Robert.    S.    1841  -        .    Poet . 
Bnrkingham,  Jos.  T.    A.    1799-1861.    Crit. 

nu.l  Ml.. 
Bnckiand,  Wm.    E.     1784- 1856.     Sci.  and 

Thwl. 
Bnckle,  Henry  T.    E.     1822-1862.    Philos. 

and  Pul. 
Bnlflnch,  8.  6.     A.    1809 -1870.     Bel.  and 

Poet. 
Bnnyan,  John.    E.    1628  - 1688.    Rel.  Fie. 
Bnrgess,  CiH>.    A      1809- 1866     Rel. 
Burke,    Edmund.      /■     1739- 1797.     £sth., 

Law,  Pol  ,  and  Ilistt. 
Burnet,  Gilbert.     E.    1643--1715.     Theol., 

Hist.,  and  Hio);. 
Bnrney,  Chas.    E.    1726- 1814.    Miuic. 
Barney,  Frances  >  J/«^.  D'Arblay).   B.    1752  - 

1840     Kii- ,  Dram.,  and  Biog. 
Barney,  James  E.     E.    1739- 1821.     Hist. 

auil  Itiu-^. 
Burns,  Bobert.    5.     1759-1796.    Poet. 
Barritt,  Ellha  {the  Leanud  Blaekswuth).    A. 

1811-         .     Mia. 
Burton,  J.  H.    S.    1809-        .    Hi«t.,  Biog., 

Pul.  K.-un.,  and  Law. 
Burton,    Bobert.    L.    1576-1640.    PliikM. 

and  Cm. 
Bush,  Geo.    A     1796- i860    Tbeol.  and  Biojf . 
Bushnell,   Horace.     A.    i8oa-        .     Bel.. 

Tli'i'i  ,  and   Ktli. 
Butler,  Jos.     E.     1691  -  175a.    Thcol. 
Butler,  Kam.     F.      161  i- 1680     IVt. 
Butler,  Wm.  A.     .1      iS.-s-        .     Pbet. 
By les,  Mather.    A.    1706- 178S.     Poet 
Byron,  Lord.    K.    1788-1824.    POet. 


Calhoun,  J.  €.    A.    1782-1850     Pol. 
Calrert,   Geo.    H.    A.     1803-        .     Trav., 

Pui-t.,  and  Uiug. 
Camden,  Wm.    E.    1551 -1623.    £.  Antiq. 
CnmpbeU,  Geo.    S.     1719  -  1796.    Grit,  and 

i  lieul. 

CampbeH,  John  L.     S.    1779-1861.     Biog. 

and  Law. 
CampbeU,  Thos.    S.    1777    1844.    Poet  and 

liioj;. 

Canning,  Geo.    K.     1770-1827.     Pol.  and 

P(H:t. 

Carew,  Thos.    E.    15S9-1639.    Poet 
Carey,  Henry  C.    A.    1793-        .    Pol.  Econ. 
Carey,  Matt.    A.    1760- 1839.     Pol.  £oon. 
Carleton,  Wm.    /.    1798-        .    Fie. and  Mis. 
Carlyle,  ThON.    S.    1795-        .    Biog.,  Hist, 

and  Ess. 
Carpenter,  Wm.  B.    5.    1813-        .    ScL 
Cary,  AUce.    A.    1820- 1871.    Poet. 
Cary,  Phoebe.    A.    1824-1871.    Poet 
CstUn,  Geo.    A.    1796- 1872.    A.Indiansand 

Trav. 
Caxton,  Wm.  E.    1412-1491.    HistandTrav. 
Centlirre,  Susannah.  E.   ibbj  -  1722.  Dram. 
Chalment,  Havid.    5.     1530- 1592.    Hist 
Chalmers,  Geo.    S.    1742- 1825.    Hist.  PoL, 

Biog.,  and  Crit. 
Chalmers,  Thos.     S.     1780- 1847.     ThcoL, 

Eth.,  Pol.  n.-on  ,  and  Sci. 
Chambers,  Ephraim.   E.    1740-        .  Cycla 
Chambers,  Robert.    S.    1802-1871.    Hist, 

Bioji;.,  and  Mis. 
Chambers,  Wm.  5.   1800-        .    Hist.,  Trav., 

and  Mi;t. 
Channing,  Wm.  E.    A.    1780- 1842.    TheoL 
CharleH.  Elizabeth.    £.1826-  Fie. 

Chatterton,  ThoH.  E.  1752- 1770.  Poet 
Chaucer,  Geoffrey.  E.  1328- 140a  Poet. 
Cheever, Geo.  B.  A.   1807-        .   Bel, Trav.. 

and  Mi.. 
Chesterfield.  Lord.   E    1694-1773.  Letters. 
Child,  L.  Maria.  A.   1802-        .  Fie,  Oiog.. 

and  Mis. 
Choate,  Rufns.   A    1799- 1859.  Pol.  and  Ess. 
Churchill.  Chas.    E     1731  -  1764     Toet. 
Clbber,  Colley.    E     1671  -  1757.    Dram,  and 

P.  Ml 

Claiborne,  John  F.  H.    A.    Biog.  and  Hist 
Clapperton.  Hugh.    .S.     1788-1827.    Trav. 
Clare.  John.     H     1793-1864.     Poet. 
Clarendon.  Earl  of.    Sei>  Hydr.  Edwakd. 
Clark,  L.  G.    A     1810-1873.    Edit  and  Mis. 
Clark,  W.G.    A     1810-1841     Puct  audMts. 
Clarke,  Adam.    /     1760- 1832.    Theol.  and 

Biog 
Clarko,  McDonald.    A.    1798- 184a.    Poet 


416 


DICTIONARY   OF  AUTHORS. 


CUrk«,  Marj€tw40a.   E.    1809-        .   Fie. 

aiid  Coocord.  to  Stiake«pe*re. 
Clftrk*,  Smb.   E.    1599-1681.    Kd-aadBng. 
Clarke,  Smi.    E.    16 j6  -  170a    TheoL 
CUrke,  8mh.    E.    1675-1719.    Theol. 
C'Uy»  Hcary.    1777  - 1851.    A.    Ptol. 
CieaieBS,  Smb.  L.  {Mark  Twain).    A.    tfjs- 

.     y>c.  lod  Trav. 
CobbetttWa.   E.    1761-1825.    A.PoL.Hiat.. 

•nd  £m. 
ObMcb,  Rlehmr4.    E.    1804-1863     PoL 
CvAb,  B.  B.  {Barrf  Gntf).     A.     1816- 

>*!€.  and  Mis. 
ObImm,  J«ha  W.    K.    1814-       .    UmL 
UlwM««,  iUrttoj.   E.   1796-1849^    FM^ 

BiufC-,  and  £m. 
C«lerldf  •,  Smi.  T.    E.    1771-1834.    VmL, 

Dniui.,  PbikM..  PbL.  aad  Em. 
ColUer,J.P.   K.   1789-        .   CritMidHac. 
CoUiu,  WUkl«.    E     1814-        .    Kc 
Colllai,  Wh.    E.    1710-1756.    Pbet. 
CoIbsb,  6«*.    J7.    1733-1794    Dmm. 
ColfliAB,  U««.    E.    1751-1836.    Draoi. 
CMike,  Ab4i«w.    S     1797-1847     8d. 
CMBke,  ««•.    S.    1788-1858.    8d..ReL,aBd 

Uv. 
€MMt«ek,  Jttka  L.  D.   J.   1789-1858.   Set. 

and  Hist 
CBMfreTe,  Wbi.    /.    1670-1719.    Draa. 
Coarad,  R.  T.    J.    1805- 1858.    Dram. 
CMk,  EHn.    E.    1817-        .    PMC 
CMke,  J«kB  E.    ^.    1830-        .    FSe.  and 

Biog. 
OB«ke,P.  P.    A.    1816-1850    Tbet 
Cooper,  A.  Asklej.    E.    1621  - 1683.    Pol. 
Cooper,  A.  Askley.    E     1671  -  1713.    Mis. 
Cooper,  Sir  Astley  P.   E.    1768-1841.    8cL 
Cooper,  J.  FealBMre.  A.  1789-1851.  Fie, 

Biog  .  Hist.,  and  Trav. 
Cooper,  Tboo.  A.  1759-1840.    Law  and  PdL 
Corerdale,  Miles.    E.    1485-1565.    BeL 
Cowley,  Abrmkaa.    E     1618-1667.    Poet 
Cowper,  Wm.    A'     1731  - 1800     Pdet, 
Cox,  S.  S.    A      1814-        .     Pol.  aadTraT. 
Coxe,  A.  C.    A.    1818-        .    Poet  and  Trav. 
Coxe,  Wm.     E.     1747-1828.     Hist.,    Biog., 

Rel.,  and  Trav. 
Cooeaa,  Fred.  S.    A.    1818-1869.   FScaiid 

Mis 
Cnibbe,  Geo.    E.    1754-1832.    Poet 
Cranrh.  C.  P.     A     1813-        .    Poet 
Cranmer.  Thos.    E     1489- 1556     Rel. 
Crashaw,  Rirhard.    E.    Died  1650.    Poet 
Croker,  John   W.     /.     1780-1857.     Hist. 

Bio«r.,  Y\c.,  and  Ess. 
Croly,  Geo.    /     1780-1860    Fie,  Poet,  Hist, 

Biog.,  Dram.,  Pol.,  and  BeL 


iCrowo,  CatkArlae.     K.    i8oj-  r    , 

I  Draw.,  and  Mi<. 

CmdeB,  Alex.   E    1701-1770.    Conoordaoce. 
ICadwortb,  Ralpb.    E     1617-1688.    Meta. 
CaaiberUad,    Ricbard.      E.      1731-1811. 

Dra.i. 
'  CaaMlBff,  Joka.   5.    1810-       .    BH. 
Caaalagbaai,  Allaa.   6*.   1785  - 1841.   Biog., 

I'lr ,  and  Putt 
Cartis,««a.  Wai.'  A.    1814.       .    Esa., 
Tra^..and>V. 

A.    1810-         .    PbL,  Biog.. 
aadlhooL 

a,  Ckas.  A.    A.    1819-        .    A.  Cyda 
awl  Mis. 
a,  Jaa.  D.    A.    1813-        .    Set. 

R.  H.    A.    tj%j-       .    Fkiet.,aBdne. 
E,   1561  -  1619.  Poet.  aBd  HisL 
E.    1809-        .     SeL 
Ranrta,  Iibibibb      B.    1731-1809.    Poet 

aadtki 
Rafaaaat,  Wfli.    E.    1605-1668.    Pbet 
lafMaaa,  Jaaaa  Waad.     A.     18*9- 

Biog.  aad  Crit 
Ravia,  A.  J.    A    1816-        .    SpiHtbaL 
Rary,  Sir  Haaipbry.    E    1778-1819.    SeL 
Rawes,  Rafaa.    A.    1803-1859.    Pbet 
RbRow,  iaa.  D.  R.  A.  1810-1867.  PoI.Eooa. 
Reeau,  Ckaa.  F.    A.    1810-       .    BeL  aod 

Puel. 
ReFoe,  Daa.    E.    1663-1731.    Tie.  aad  Pbet 
Rekker  •Decker),  Tlaa.      R.      1638- 

D.nm 
RealuuB,  DIxoa.    E.    1786-1828.    Trar. 
Reakaai,  Sir  Jeka.    E.     1615  -  166S.    Pbet. 
Re^aiaeey,  Thae.    E.    1785  - 1859.    Fie  and 

Rerby,  60a.  H.  (Jokm  PkonUi).    A.    1814- 

1861     Mis. 
ReTere,  H.  Scheie.  A.  1810-       .    PhiloL 

and  M^s. 
Dirk,  Tkos.    S.     1774- >857      Sci.  and  BeL 
Diekens,  Ckas.    E.    1812-1870.    Fie. 
Disraeli,  Bea.     E.    1805-        .     Fk.,  PbU 

Bu)g.,  and  Poet 
DIaraeH,  Isaae.  E.  1767-1848.  Biog  and  Fie. 
Dodd.  Wfli.     F.     1727- »777     TkeoL 
Doddridire,  PhHlp.    E     1702-1751    TheoL 
Doddridge,    PhHlp.    A.     1772-1831.     PoL 

and  L-»w. 
Donne.  John.    E.     1573-1631.    Poet 
Dooirlxs.  C>awiB.    S.     1475-1522.    Poet 
Poet 
ScL,  PoL. 


Drake.  Jos.  E.    A.     1795 -i8x> 
Draper,  John  W.    A.    1811- 

and  Hist. 
Drayton,    HickaeL    E.    1563-1631 

Fie.,  and  Hist. 


Poet. 


DICTIONARY   OP   AUTHORS. 


417 


DniHBiOBd,  Wn.    S     15S5-1649.    Poet 
Orjrden,  John.    E.    1631  - 1701.      Poet  and 

lIlHIll 

Daabar,  Wm.    S.    146s ->S3o-    Poet- 
DaaUm   W«.    A.     1766-1839.     Biog.   aiul 

Ili*t  Art. 
Dajrklack,  E.  A.  A.    1816-        .    Biog.  and 

ilist. 
DayeklBck,  G«o.  L.    A.    1833-1863.    Biog 
Dwlffht,  Tin.    A.    1753-1817      TbeoL  and 

Poft. 

EaxtUke.  Chw.  L.  E.  1793  -  1865.  Art 
Erhard,  Lawrence.  E.  i67i-i73a  Hist. 
Edfeworth,  Maris.     E.     1767 -1849.     Ess. 

and  Ki.v 
Edwards,  Jonathaa.    E.  1639- 1713.    TheoL 
Edwarda,  Joaathaa.    A.  1703- 1758.    Meta. 

and  Thfol 
EdwardH,  Richard.    E.    1523-1566     Poet. 
EfflestOB,  Edward.    A      1837-        .    Rel. 

and   K..- 
Eliot,  Oporfe.    See  Licwrs,  Makiatt  C. 
Eliot.  Jolin.    A.     1604-1689.     Rrl. 
Elizabetli.  Charlotte.    Sec  To?»?ca,  C.  E 
Elliott,  Ebrnezer.   E    1781-1849.    Poet  and 


1788  -  1863.    Pol.  and  Dram 
A.     1813-  Fie.   and 


E      1495 
A.   1803- 


1546.    Ess.  and 
.    Ess.,  Biog., 
Pbet. 


Elliott,  Wm.   A 
Ellis,  Sarah   8. 

Miv 
Elyot,  Sir  Thot. 

Mis 
Eaiemoa,  B.  If . 

and  I'o.'t. 
Eaf llsh,  Thoa.  Daaa.   A.    1819- 

and  Fir 
Erakiae,  Thoa.    E 

and  Kir 
Eap7,  Jaa.  P.    A     1785-1860.    Sci. 
Ereiya,  Joha.    E.     1630-1706.  Sci,  Philol., 

ami  Mio 
Erelya,  Joha.    E.     1654-1698.     Pbet  and 

Cm 
Ererett,  ilex.  H.      A.     1793-1847.    Po!., 

Hio^  .  Ks»  .  and  Poet 
Ererett,  Edward.    A.    1794  -  1865.  Rel.  and 

K».s 
Faber,  Geo.  g.    E.    1773-1854.    Thcol. 
Fabyan,  Robert.    B.    1450-1513.    Ilist 
Fairbairn.  Pat.    S     1805-        .    Throl. 
Falroner.  Wai.    S.     1730- 1769.     Poet. 
Faraday,  Michael.    E.    1791  - 1867.    Sci 
Farqahar,  Geo.    /    1678-1707.    Drain.,Pbet, 

Fay,  Theo.  K.     .1  1806-        .    Re. 

Feltoa,  ('.  C.    A  1807-1863.    Ed. 

Ferraaoa,  Adam.  ^      i7i4-i8i&   Hiataad 
Phiiot. 


1750-1833.    Law,  Pol., 


FenraaOB,  Robert.    S.    1750-1774.    Poet 
Ferrier,  Mary.    S.    1783-1855.     Fie. 
Fieldinir.  Henry.    A".     1707-1754.     i'ie. 
Fields,  Jaii.  T.     A.    1820-        .     Poet   and 

-Mis. 
Finch,  Fraacla  H.    A.    1837-        .    Poet 
Finlay,  Geo.    S.     1800-        .    Hist. 
Fitzhui^h,  Geo.    A.     1810-        .     Pol. 
Flaah,  H.  L.     A.     1837-         .     Poet 
Fletcher,  Andrew  (of  SaUoun).     S.     1653  - 

1716.      Pol. 

Fletcher,  Joha.    E.    1576- 1635.     Dram. 
Flint,  Tim.    A.    1780-1840.    Biog.  and  Fie. 
Foli^er,  Peter.    A.     1618-1690.    Poet 
Foote,  Sam.    E.     1731  - 1777.     Dram. 
Foote,  Wra.  H.    A.     1794 -1869.    Hist,  and 

lUl. 
Ford,  John.    E.     1586-1639.    Dram. 
Forney,  J.  W.   A.    1817-        .    Pol.  and  Mil. 
Forater,  John.     E.    1770-1843.     Ess.  and 

Rtl. 
Forater,  John.    E.    1813-        .    Biog. 
Fowler,  Wm.  C.    A.    1793-        .    Ed,  Pol, 

and  Hist. 
Fox,  Chas.  J.    E.    1749-1806.   Pol  andHiat 
Fox,  Geo.    E.     1634-1680.    Rel. 
Fox,  John.    E.     1517-1587.     Biog. 
Fraacla,  Sir  PhUlp  {Junius).  E.   1740-  1818. 

Pol. 

Fraaklla,  Bea.    A.    1706- 1790.    Pol.Eth, 

and  Sri 
Freaeaa,  Philip.   A.    1753-1833.    Poet,  and 

Mis. 
Frost,  John.     A.     1800- 1859.     Hist  and 

Biog. 
Fronde,  Jaa.  A.    E.    i8t8-        .    Hiflt,I^c, 

and  Rel. 
Faller,  Marfaret.    See  Ossoli. 
Falter,  ThoH.    E.    1608-1661.    Hist  and  Rel 
Gallagher,  Wm.  D.    ^.1808-        .    Poet 
Oallatla,  Albert.   A.   1761  -  1847.  Pol.  Econ. 
Gait,  John.    S.     1779-1839.     Fie.  Biog.,  and 


Dr 


E.      1716-1779.      Dram. 


Garriek,  Darld. 

and  FiMt 
Gaakell,  Mary  E.    E.    1833-1866.    Fie.  and 

Bio? 

Gay,  Joha.    E.    1688-1733.    Poet 
Gayarre,  Chaa.  E.  A.   A.    1805-        .    HUt 

and  Fir 

Gayler,  rhaa.     A      1830-        .    Dram. 
Gibbon.  Edward.    E.    1737 -«794-     Hiat 
Gifford,  Wai.   E.    1757-1836    E««  and  Poet 
Gllea,  ( haaacy.    A.    1819-        .    Theol. 
GIIea,Heary.    A.     1809-        .    Ess.  Theol, 

and  (>it. 
GUailaa,6oo.  5   1813-        •  Biog.  and  Crit 


418 


DICTIONAEY   OP  AUTHORS. 


Gllllet,  J«ka.    B.    t747-iS96.    Hkt 


I  Hawtlior««,  N.    A.    i8o4>iS64.    Fie. 
Hay,  John.    A.    18)9-       .    FMt  and  lii«. 
■ajra«,  P.  H.    A.    1831-       .    Fbet 
Haslitt,WM.    B.    1778-1890.   CntaodFoi 
HM4,8lrF.  B.    S.    1793-        .    Trmr.  aad 

Pol. 
HMitey,  J.  T.    A.    1814-        .     Biog.  and 

Kic 
■eker,  B«fftMl4.    K.    1783-1836.    Fbet. 
Halpa,  Mr  Arthar.    A     1818-1873-    £m 

llt>l  .  and  l(u,v; 

Hmmm,  FalkU  D.    K.    1794-1835.    Poec 
■•ary.  Matt.    S.    1661- 17 14.    Bel. 
Haats,  Garallaa  L.    A.    1804-1856.    Fie. 
HerWrt,  Gae.    B.    1593  - 1633.    Fbet 
■artort,  Haary  W.  (F<«ait  F^mUr).     A. 

1807- tSsS.    Kic  and  Mia. 
■•rrick.  Sokert.    E.    1591-1674.    Ftet 
■aiadMl,  CaraUaa  Im    B.    1750-1848.  Set. 
■aradMl,  Sir  F.  W.    B.    1738-18^2.    Sci. 
HaradMl,  Sir  Jaha.    E     itqo-        .    Sri 
HaradMlt  Sir  Johu  I.  >K  17^,2    1871. 

St-i. 
Herrey,  Jaa.    B.    1713    1758.    Rcl. 
Hanrey,  Thaa.  K.    B.    1804-1859.    Poet 
Hildretk,  Bidkari.    A.    1807-1865     Hut 
milari,  fiaa.  S.    A.    1808-       .    Uitt. 

Trav.,  and  Crit 
Hlmt.  Henry  B.    A.     1813-        .    Poet 
HItrJinM-k,  Edward.    A.     1793-1864.     Scl 

and  Rri. 
■akkaa,  Tkoa.     B.     1588-1679.     PoL  and 

PbUoa. 
Haiga,  Ckaa.   A.    1797-       .    TheoL 
HaffMia,  Chaa.  F.     A.     1S06-        .     Fie. 

and  Port. 
HoffaiaB,  Darld.    A.    1784- 1854.    Law  and 

Kic. 
Hoff ,  Jaa.    S.    1772-1835     Poet 
HoleoBibe,  Wh.  H.     A.     1825-  Sci. 

and  Tbrol. 
Hollaad,  J.  6.    A.    1819-        •    Fie,  Poet. 

Biog.,  and  Hist 
Holaiea,  Mary  i.    A.  -        .    Fie 

Holaea,  O.  W.    A.    1809-        .    Poet  and 


GUaua,  CaraUaa.  A.    1794-       .    FIcaad 

Pdet. 
CUtaaaBtSwa.    A.    1791-1858.    Bet.  Poet. 

andMu. 
GlaMaaa,  Wau  B.    E.    1809-       .    Pol. 

and  Antiq. 
Glelff,  G«a.  B.    K.    1795-       .     Fie,  BcL. 

Hut .  and  Biog. 
GUMaa,G«a.B.    A.    1808-1857.    fteL 
Gadwia,  Parka.    A.    1816-       .    Hiatand 

Edit 
Gadwla,  Wa.    B.    1756-1836.     Fie..  Btog.. 

and  Pbl. 
GaldaulU,  OUrar.    B.    1738-1774-    PMt. 

Kir.,  l>raui ,  Hiat,  and  Sci. 
Gaad.  Joka  M.     B.     1764-18*7-    ^tL  aad 

Purt 

Gaadrick,  Haai.  G.    A.    1793- 1863.    HiaL, 

Trat  .  F'.c  .  and  Poet 
Gore,  Catkerlaa  G.  F.    &    1799-1861.   FSe. 
Gawar,  Joka.    E.    1330-1401.    Poet 
Grakaaie,  Jaa.    S.    1765-1811.    Foet 
Gray,  Aaa.    A.    1810-        .    Set. 
Gray,  Tkoa.    E.    1716- in>-    ^o^ 
Graalay,  Horaea.    A.    1811-1873-  Edit  aad 

Mis. 
GiaaB,WBi.H.    A,    1835-       .    PkiloL 
Graaaa,  Bakart.  B.   1560-1595.    Draa-aad 

Kic 
GrtfflB,  Gerald.    L    1803-1840.    Fie. 
Grimtikaw,  Wm.    A.    1783-1853.    Hiat 
GrUwold,  B.  W.    A.    1815 -1857.    Biof.aad 

(Tit 

Grote,  Geo.    E.    1794-1871.    HistaadBiof. 
Hale,SarakJ.    il.    1790-       .    Fk..  Poet, 

and  .Mis. 
HaU,  Edward.    5.     178S-1844.    Tiar.  aad 

Pbeu 
HallfJoa.    E.    1574-1656.    Rel.andSat 
HaU,  Bakart.    B.    1764-1831.     TheoL  and 

Pol 

HaH.  S.  r.    F.    1804-        .    Fie 

Hallam,  Heary.    E.    1778-1859.    Hist,  Pol, 

and  Crit. 
Hallack.  Fltx<«raaae.  A.   1795-1867.  Poet.  Fir 

HamHton.  Alex.    A.    1757-1804.    Pol.  Holt,  John  S.    A.    1836-        .    Fie 

Hamilton,  Sir  Wa.    E.    17SS-1856.    Meta.   Home,  Henry  ^Ior</XaaM»).    S.    1696-1783. 

and  K<s.  L^w  and  Crit 

HaaBay,Jas.    5.    1827-1873.     Fie,  Crit,  and   Home,    Joka.    S.     1724-1808.     Dram,  and 

E*S.  I  lll^t. 

Hart,  Joka  S.    A.    1810-        .    Biog,  Ed.  1  Hood,  Thos.    E.    1798 -1845     Poet  and  Mis. 


and  Rti. 
Harta,  Fraaris  Bret.   A.    1838-       .    Poet 

and  Fir. 
Hawks,  Francis  L.    A.    1798 -1866.    Hist. 

and  Rei. 


Hook,  Theo.   E.    E.    1788-1841.    Fie   and 

Mis 
Hooker.  Bickard.    E.    1553-1600.    Rel. 
Hope,  Thos.    E.   1770- 1 831.    Trar.  and  Art. 
Hopkins,  Xark.    A.    1S03-        .    Theol. 


DICnONAEY   OP   AUTHORS. 


419 


HopklnMB,  Francis.    A    1737-1791-  Toct. 
llopkinHon,  Jon.    A.    1770-1843.    Poet 
Ilorni',  John.     E     1732-180S.     Dram. 
Ilornp,    K.  H.    E.    1803-  Dnm.  and 

Mi> 
Home.  Tho».  H.  E.    A'    17S0-1862.   Thcol. 

aiKl  II  - 
Honaer.  Uin.  II.  r.     ■!     1814-         .    Poet. 
Howard,  Ifpnrjr  ytUtrl  of  Surrey.)    E.    1516- 

IS47       »''-t 
HowrllM,  Wn.  D.     A.     1837-        .     Poet., 

Kic  ,  mill  Mii 
Howliion,  Bobert  B.    A.    1S20-        .   Hist. 

and  liit)^. 
Honltt«  Mary.    E.     1800-        .    Fie,  Port., 

and  Mts. 
Hewitt,  Wn.    E.    1792-        .    Fie,  Rel.,  and 

Mis. 

HudNon,  Henry  N.    A.     1814-        .    Crit 
Hughes,  ThOH.  '  Tuiu  BrowH).    E.    1823- 

Kic.  and  Mis. 
Hane,    DaTld.     5.     1711-1776.      Hist,  and 

i'liiius. 

Hant,  J.  H.  Eelgh.    E.    1784- 1859.    Poet. 

ami  Ksi. 
Hantlnirton,  J.  V.    A.    1815-1863.    Poet 
Hurlbut,  Wm.  H.    A.    1S27-        .    Editand 

lr:i\. 
Huxley,  ThoH.  II.    E     1825  -         .     Sri. 
Hjde,  Edward    KarlofClnrendon).    E.    1608- 

if>73      llist..  Hio);.,  and  Pol. 
Inchbald,  Elizabeth.    E.    1756- 1821.  Dram. 

and  Fic. 
Infelow,  Jean.    E.    1830-        .    Poet  and 

Fir, 
Ingersoll,  Chan.  J.    A.    1783- 1863.    Hist, 

Vtyl  ,  and  Dram. 
Ingraham,  Jos.  H.     A.    1809-1866.     Fir. 

and  K  I 
InneH,  CoHnio.    S.     1663-1744.    Hist 
Irrinv,  Edward.    S.     1793-1834.    Rel. 
Irvinf,  WajthlnirtOB.    A.    1783- 1839.  Hist, 

Hiiitr ,  nntl  Fie. 
iTen,  Ijerl  8.    A.     1797 -1867.    Theol. 
Janes  G.  P.  R.    E.    1801  - 1860     Fie  .  TTist  . 

and  l'...t 
Janes,  Henry.    A      i^n - 
Janeson,  Anna.     /."     1797-18A0     .\rt    and 

M.H 
Janney,   San.    M.     .(      iSoi-  Biof., 

I'oci  ,  and  llcl. 
JarTea, Jaa.  J.  A.   iRiS-        .  Trav. and .\rt. 
Jarfls.  San.  P.    A.     1787    1851.    Theol. 
Jajr,  Joka.    A.    1745  - 1839.    Pol. 
Jay.  Wn.    A.    1789-1858.    Biof;.  and  Pol. 
Jerrerson,  Tkoa.    A.    1743-1836.    Hist  and 

Pol. 


Jeffrey,  Prancls.    S.    1773- 1850.    Crit 
Jerrold,  Dottf  las  W.    S.    1803- 1857.    Poet 

and  Fic. 
JewNbary,  Maria  J.    E.    1800- 1833.    Poet 

and  .MiH. 
Johnson,  Nan.    E.    1709 -1784.    Philol.Fie, 

Foot.,  and  Uiuff. 
Johnston,  Jas.  F.  W.    S.    1796- 1855.   8cL 
Jones,  Chas.  C.    A.    1831  -        .    A.  AnUq. 
Jones,  Joel.    A.    1795 -i860.    Theol. 
Jones,  John  B.    A.    1810- 1866.    Kic. 
Jones,   Sir   Wn.    E.    1746 -1794.     FhUoL, 

Dram  ,  and  Law. 
Jonson,  Ben.    E.    1573 -1637.    Dram. 
Jndd,  S)iT«ster.    A.    1813-1853.    Fic.  and 

U  1. 
Judson,  Enlly  (AliMNy  Forru/er).    A.    1817- 

1S54.     Fic.  and  Poet 
JanlQK.    Se  Fr.\ncis,  Sib  Philip. 
Kane,  E.  K.    A.    1820 -1857.    Trav. 
Keats,  John.    E.    1796  - 1821.     Poet 
Keble,  John.    E.    1792-1866.    Rel.  and  Poet 
Keith,  Alex.    5.    1791-        .    Tiicol. 
Kendall,   Geo.    W.    A.    1807- 1867.     Trar. 

an*l  Hist. 
Kennedy,  John  P.    A.    1795-1870.    Fic. 
Kent,  Jas.    A      1763    1847.     Uw  and  Pol. 
Key,  Francis  S.    A.    1779-1843,    Poet 
KlnbaH,  BIchard  B.    A.    t8i6-       .    Fic. 

and  Trav. 
Klnglake,  Alex.   W.    A     181 1-        .    Fic. 

nnil  llisl. 
Klngsley,  ChaK.    E.    1819-        .    Fic,  Rel., 

Tmv ,  and  P.)et. 
Kinney,  E.  C.    ^.  -        .     Poet   and 

Fi.-. 
Kip,  Wn.  I.    A.    1811-        .    Rel.andllist 
K  Irk  land,  Caroline  M.   A.   tSoi  - 1864.  Mis. 
Kitto.  John.    E.     1804-1854.     Rd. 
Kniifht,  ('has.   E.   1791-1S73.   HistandMis. 
Knowles,  Jas.  Sheridan.     /.     17S4-1862. 

Dram. 
Knox,  John.    S.    1505- 1572.     Theol. 
Kranth,  Chas.   P.    A.    1833-        .     TheoL 

and  Hist 
Kurtz.  RenJ.    A.     1795-1865.    Theol. 
I^  Borde,   Max.    A.    1804- 1873.    Set.   and 

Hist 
Lainir,  Malcoln.    S.   1763-1818.    Hist 
Lainff,  San.    S.    1810-        .    Trav.  and  Rel. 
Lanb,   €haa.     E.     1775-1834.     Ess..    Fic, 

Dram  .  and  Poet 
Lander,  Bichard.    E.    1804-1834.    Trav. 
Laador,  W.  S.    E.    1775-1864.    Dram.,Pbet.» 

and  .Mm 
LaanaB,  Chat.    A.    1819-        .    Tiar.  and 

Bioj. 


420 


DICTIONARY   OP  AUTHORS. 


lardnrr.  MMiytlM.    /     >793-t8s9-    i*H. 
I^tkam,  R.  CI.    K.    1812-        .    Fiiilol. 
LatiMrr,  Havk.    K.     1473-1555-    ReL 
Lawrrare,  IV m.  B.    A.    1800-        .    Law. 
Layard,  A.  H.    E.    1817-        .    Antiq. 
Leeky.  W.  £.  B,    £.  -        .    £th.and 

PluU't. 
Lm,  Ella  B.   A.    1794-        .   FicaadBtD;. 
Lm,  Haawik  V,    A.    1780-1865.    Vie.  aad 

Biog. 
Lm,  Hat.    K.    1658  -  1691.    Dram. 
Lc^ri,  H.  g.     A.    1797.1843.     Hist  aad 

Uw. 
Lelaad,  Ckaa.  G.   A.    1824-        .   Tnr.aad 

Lelaad,  Joka.    IT.    1506  -  155s.    Antiq. 
lA*aioB.Mark.  K.  1809- 187a  Draai.  aad  Mia. 
Leiilir,  Kliaa.    A.    1787-1857    FicaadMb. 
Leater,  Ckaa.  R.   A.   1815-        .    BMf.,i1e.. 

and  Pbi 
Lever,  Ckaa.  J.    T     1806- 187a.    FSe. 
LeVert.  OrUtlaW.    .4.    i8«o-        .    TiaT. 

Mntl  K»M 
Lewea,  Qe».  ■•    E.    1817-       .    Biof .  and 

nut. 

Lewca,  larlaa  C  (<^0iytf  Jr/«W).    E.    i8jo- 

.     Kir 
Lewla,  Geo.  C\     g.    1806-1863.     PM.  and 

lli-t 
Lewis,  Matthew  G.(.ir<m^£<vif).  R.    1775- 

1818.     Kir.  and  Dnun. 
Lewis,  Tajler.   A.  1803-        .   TkeoL.Rtk., 

Riid  Cnt 
Lejdea,  Joka.    S.    1775-1811.    Hist  and 

P.wt. 
Lleker,  Fraacls.    A.    1800-1871.    FbL  and 

PdI   Kron 
LIUo,  Geo.    F.    1691  - 1737.    Draia. 
Lladsaj,    81r    Darld.       E.       1490-1568- 

l>rniu.  mi'l  Fuet. 
Llmirard,  Joka.    E.    1771-1851.    Hist 
Lipplarott,  Sara  J.  iOmce  Grrmwood).    A. 

1S2)  -  Kir..  Ess  ,  and  Mis. 

LlTlnirstone.  Darld.    S.    1815-1873.    Ttst. 
Lorke.  Jokn.    E.    1633-1704.    Meta..  PoL, 

ninl  Kss 

Lockhart,  J.  G.    S.    1794-1854.    Rc.Biog.. 

and  Crit. 
Loaffellow,  H.  W.    A.    1807-        .     Poet. 

and  Fir. 
Loairstreet,  A.  B.    A.    1790-1870.    Fie. 
Loasiaf,  B.  J.    A.     1813-        .     Hist  and 

Bi(i«r. 
Lorelare.  Richard.    E.    1618-1658.    Poet 
Lorer,  Kan.     /.     1797-  »868.     Fir. 
Lowell.  Jas.R.    A.    1819-        .    Poet,  Fie, 

and  Crit. 


Ladlow,  Fltzknrli.  -187a    Tlmr. 

an<l  Fir. 
Laat,  Geo.    1807-        .     Poet  and  Fic. 
Ljell,  Hlr  Ckaa.    E.    1797 -1875.    ^cL  and 

Tra.. 
Ljrljr,  Joha.    E.    1553- 1600.    Dram. 
Lyach,  Wm.  F.    A.    1805-1865.    TrsT. 
LjrttOB  UorJ),  Sir  R.  Balwer.    E.     1805- 

1873.     Fic,  Dram.,  and  Puet. 
Hc€«be,  Jaa.   D.     -t  Biog.. 

Ili«t.  and  Fir. 
■acaalajr,  Catkariae.    K    1733-1791.    Hbt 

and  Ktli 
Haraalay,  T.  B.    K    1800-1859.    Hist,E«.. 

and  )'.xt 
RrCosk.  Jaa.    A     1811-        .    TheoL 
■cCaUoch,  J.    R.     S.     1789-1864.     Pol.. 

Ili4t  .  and  Pol.  Eron. 
■ardoaald.  Geo.    S.    i8j6- 
RrlntOMh.  Maria  J.    A.    i8o{ 
Harkay,   Chaa.     S-    1814-        .    met.  and 

Ml). 
Harkeaale,  Heary.    S.    1745-1831.    FIc. 
Harfcewie,   R.   8.     .^    1809-        .     Fir., 

Pttrt..  and  iihifr 
■acklatoah.  Sir  Jaa.    S.    1765-1832.    Pol.. 

Ili»t  .  and  VnU 
■arpheraoa,  Jaa.    S    1738-1796.    Poet,  and 

lli«t 
Haddea,  HIr  Fre4.    B.    1801-       .    Antiq 
Hadlaoa.  Jaa.    A.    1751-1836.    Pol. 
Haftaa,  Wai.    /.    1794-1843-    Ess.  aad  Mis 
Hahaa,   Asa.     A.    1799-        .    TlieoL   and 

Kth. 
MahoB.  P.  H.  Lord.    E.    1805-        .    Hist. 
Mahoay,  Fraacis  < /'i/A^^r  ProMi).    /.    i8oo- 

iS^j^j      K*»  and  Mis. 
Malthas,  Th.  R.    E.    1766-1834.    PoLEcon. 
MaadeTiile.  B.    E.    1670- 1733.    Etii. 
Maaa,  Horace.    A.    1796-1859-    Eth.  and 

Maaaiag,  Aaae.    E.    1813-        .    Fic 
Maatell,  G.  A.    E.     1790- 1852.    Sei. 
Marlowe.  C.     E     1564- 1593.     Dram. 
Marryat.  Capt.  F.    E.    1793- 184S.    Fic 
Marsh,  Geo.  P.    A.    1801-        .     PhUol.and 

Mis 
Marshall,  Joha.    A.    1755- »835-    Biog. and 

Martiaeaa,  Harriet.    £.1802-        .    Fic, 

Rl  .  T'-nv  .  .ind  Hist. 
Manrell,   Aadrew.     E.    1620-1678.      Poet 

and  Crit. 
Massey.  Gerald.    E.    1828-        .    Poet 
Massiairer.  Philip.    E.    1584-1640.    Dram. 
Maaaoa,  Darid.    ^.    1823-        .    Ess, Crit. 

and  fiiog. 


DICTIONARY   OP   AUTHORS. 


421 


Mather,  Cotton.    A     1663-1728    lUl. 
Matarin,  t'has.  R.    /     178^  -  <8'4-     !>">■" 

ami  Fir 
■atarln.    Edward.     A.  -  lie 

All  I    V  .1 

Haary,  N.  F.    A     1806-1873.    Sci. 
HaTerIck,  Aag.    A.  -        .    Biog.  and 

Mis 
Mayer.  Brantz.    A.    1809-        .    Hist 
Mayhcn.  II«-nry.    E.     1813-         .     Fie. 
Majro,  Wm.  S.    A.    1812-        .    Fie. 
Mi>ade,  Wa.    A.    1789-1863.    Rel. 
Mellen,  (t.     A.     1799-1841.     Fie.  and  Poet. 
MelTllIe,  M.    A.    1819-        .    Fie  andTrar 
Merirale,  (haa.    *.'.     1808- 1875.    Hist. 
Mlddleton,  H.    A.     1797-        •    P'»l 
Mill,  .las.    S.     1773-1836.     Po'.  Ecnn. 
J  Mill,  J.  S.     K.    1806-187J      Pol.  and  Pol 

niller^  C.HJJoaekmMllrr).   A.    1841- 

Porl 

MHIer,  Huffh.    5.    1803-1856.    SdandTrav. 
Milman,  Hennr  H.     B.    1791 -1868.    Poet, 

Urani.,  and  Hist. 
Hilnca,   R.  M.    E     1809-        .    Poet,    and 

I  rav. 
MHton,  John.    E.    1608-1674.    Poet.,  Pol., 

nii.l  R.I. 
MInot.  (ipo.  R.    A.    1758-1803.    Hiat 
Mitrhell.  I>onald  G.    A.    1833-        .    Fie. 
MitchrU.    John    R.     A.    1798- 1858.     Sci. 

nii.l  P.).  t 
MitrhHl,  Maria.    A.    1818-        .    Sci. 
MItford,    Mary    R.     E.    1786 -1855.     fie., 

Drain.,  nml  Poet. 
MItford.  Wm.    E.    1744- 1837.    Hist 
Moir,    D.    M.    S.     1798-1870.     Ess.,    Poet., 

mill  Fic. 
Monboddo,   J.    Ramet   (Lord).    S.    1714- 

1799      Pliiios. 
Montana,  Mary  W.    E.    1690-1763.    Mis. 
Montfonierjr.  Jaa.    5.    1771-1834-    Poet 
Moore«   C.   C.    A.    1779-1863.     Poet   and 

i'h.lol. 
Moore,  Prank.    A.    t8a8-        .    Hist  OoU. 
Moore,  Thonaa.    /     1779- 1853.    FOet  and 

Fuv 
More,  Hannah.    E     1745-1833.    Dram,  and 

Fuv 
'  More,  8tr  Tkoa.    E.    1480-1335     Poland 

Fir. 
Morfaa,   ha4j   Sjdnef.     B.     1789-1859. 

Fic.  anil  Trnv. 
Morrta,  Geo.  P.     A      1803-1864      Port  nn.l 

I  Irani 
Xorria,  Was.    K     1810-        .    Poet 
Morton,  Smb.  G.    A.    1799- 1851.    8ei 


MotherweH,  Wni.    S.    1798-1835-    Poet 
Motley,  John  L.    A.    1814-        .    Hist 
MouUrle,  Wm.    A.    1731-1805.     Hist 
Mudie,  Robert.    S.     1777-1843.    Sci. 
MilHer,    F.   Max.     E.    1833-        .     PhiloL 

mid  .Mi.s. 
Mnlock,  Dinah  M.    E     1836-        .    Fic. 
MarchiKon,  Sir  R.    E.    1793-        .    ScL 
Mnre,  Wm.    S     1799-1860.     Lit  Hist 
Mnrray,    Lindley.    A.    1745 -1836.     PhiioL 

nml  R  1. 
Napier,  8ir  Chaa.  Jaa.    E.   1782-  1853.  Law. 
Ifapier,    Sir    ('has.  John.    E.    1786-1860. 

Hist. 

Napier,  John.    S.    1550-1617.    Sci.andRel. 
Napier,    Sir    Wm.    F.    P.    E.    1785-1866. 

Hist. 
Nenl,  John.    A.    1793-        .    lie..  Poet, and 

Dram. 
Nenl,  Job.  C.    A.    1807-1847.    Fic.andMis. 
Newman,  John  H.    E.    1801-        .    Theol. 
Newman,  Fred.  Wm.    E.   1805-       .    Theol. 
Newton, Sir  Iitaac.    E.    1643-1737.    Sci.  and 

Thtol. 
Newton,  John.    E     1725-1807.    Rcl. 
Nicoll,  Robert.    S.     1814-1837.    Poet,  and 

Itl. 
Nordhoff,    Chaa.     A.     1830-        .     Tnv.. 

Fie.,  and  .VI is. 
Norton,  Mra.  C.  E.  8.  E.   i8o8  -        .  Poet, 

Fie ,  and  Ms. 
Nott,  Josiah  C.    A.    XB04-        .ScL 
OliTer,  Peter.    A.    1821  - 1855.    Hist. 
Ople,  Amelia.    E     1769 -1853.    Fic. 
Oagood,  Francea  8.    A.    1813-1850.    Poet. 
Oagood,    Sam.      A.     1813-  Rel.    and 

Trav. 

OaaoH,  Margaret  Fnller  d*.  A.  1810-1850. 

Crit.  and  Mis.  1 

Otia,  Jaa.    A     1725 -«783     Pol. 
Otway,  Thox.    E.    1651-1685     Dram. 
Owen,  Darld  D.    A.    1807-1860     Sci. 
Owen,  John.    /•'.    1616-1683     Theol. 
Owen,   John   J.    A.    1803-1869.    £d.  and 

R-l 
Owen,  Rirhard.    F     1804-        .    Sci. 
Owen,  Richard.    A      1810-        .    Sd. 
Owen,  Robert.    A      1771-1858.    Mia. 
Owen,  Robert  D.    A.    1801-        .    Mia. 
Paine,   Thos.     A.     1736-1809.     PoL   and 

Theol. 

Pnley,  Wm.    F    1743-1805.    Tlieol.  and  Eth. 
Palfrey.  John  G.    A.     1796-        •     Hist 
Palarare.  Sir  F.    E     1788-1861.     Hist 
Pardoe,   J  alia.     E     1808-1863-     Fic    and 

Trav. 
Fnrk,  Mnnyo.    E.    1771 -1805.    Trav.       j 


422 


DICTIONARY   OP  AUTHORS. 


Parkfr,  ThMi«r«.    A.    i8to-i86ab    TlieoL 
Tarkaiam,  Fraada.    A.    i8jj-        .    Tnv. 

and  Ui«t. 
Paniell,  Tkaa.    K.    1679- 1718.    Puet. 
ParaoaM,   Theopk.    A.    1797-        .    TbeoL 

ami  Ko* 
Part«a,  Jaaiea.    A.    i8aa-        .    BioK.aad 

Lm. 
Partoa,  8arak  Pajraaa  (Awif  Ftrmy   A, 

181 1  -  tK/a.     Fir.  tuiU  Mu. 
Pataiare,  Coveatry.    it.    1823-       .    Foet 
Paaldiaf ,  Ja».  K.    ^.    1778-1860.    I'tc 
Payae,  Joka  II.    A.    1794-1852.    Dntu. 
Prabod/,  A.  P.    ^      t8ii-         .    BeL 
Perk,  W«.  H.    A     iSjo-        .    Fie. 
P«aa,  Hat.    A.    1644-171&    ThcoL 
Prpy^t  K^M.    E     1632-1703.    Mis. 
Perrhal,  Jas.  CI.    A.    1795-1857.    Foet 
Perry,  Tbon.    A'     1748-1811.    iUlipm. 
Ph«l|M,   Alailra   L.    A.    1793"       •    SeL. 

t  ir  .  mill  Mu. 
PkilipK,  Aaikraaa.    E.    1675-1749     Dnua. 
PhiU|M,  Joka.    £.    1676-1708.    Poet 
Phllllpih  Kdward.    E.    i6jo-i68»    Pbikil. 
Pkllli|»,  WeadelL    ^1811-        .    h>L 
Plerpoai,  Joka.    A.    1775  - 1866.    PteL 
Plkr,  Albert.    ^1809-        .    Poet 
Piakertoa,  Joka.    S.    1758-1821.    Hist 
Plaa,   Ckas.   C.    A.    1804-1866.    BeL  aad 

Poet 
Plnmrr.  Wai.  S.    A.     i9o2-        .    BeL 
l'o«,  Edgar  A.    A.    t8t(-i849.    Pbet,Crit, 

ami  Kir. 
Pollard,  E.  A.    A.    1838-1873.    Hist.Biog.. 

and  Pol. 
Pollok,  Robert.    S.    i799-i8a7>    ^^et 
Pope,  Alex.    h:.    1688-1744.    P**^ 
PofKOB,  Kirhard.    E.    1759- 1808.    Crit 
Porter,  Anna  a.    E.    1780- 183J.    Pic. 
Porter.  Jane.    K.     1776-1850.     Fie. 
Potter.  AloBzo.    A.    1800-1865.    PoLEeon. 

ami  U  >l. 
Powell,  Tkos.    A.    1809-        .    Dram,  and 

Rioir 
Praed,  W.  M.    E     1802-1839.    Poet 
Prescott,   Wai.   H.    A.    1796-1859.    Hist 

an«l  Ess. 
Prestoa,  Margaret  J.    ^1.  1838-        .  Poet 
Priestley,  Jos.    E.    1733-1804     Ptu]os.and 

Sri. 
Prime,  Sam.  I.    A.    1812-        .    Trav.  and 

Rtl. 
Prior.  Matt.     F.     1664     1721.     Port. 
Procter,  Adelaide  A.    E.    1825-1864.    Poet 
Procter.    Bryan    W.    iBarry   Cormtcall).    E. 

1 7go  -  1 S6S.     Poet  and  Dram. 
Pnrckas,  Sam.    E.    1577-1628.    Trav. 


Paaey,  Edward  B.    E     1800-        .    TheoL 
({aarles,  Francis.    A.     1592-1644     Puet 
,  <JBiarcy,  Joiiiak.    A.    1744 ->775-    PuL 
I  Kadrlirfe,  Aaae.    S.    1764- 1823.    Fie. 
Kayaet,  I'oadjr.    A     1784-1842.    PuL 
Balalffk,  8lr  W.    S.    1552-  1618.    Hist  and 
Poet 

Allaa.    S.    1685-1758.    Fbei. 
David.    A.    1749-1815.    Hist  and 

,  J.  O.  H.     A.     1797-         .     11  .<>: 
Raviliasoa,  tiao.    E.    1815-        .    1  tut  and 

R-l. 
SayaMiad.  H.  J*  /4.   1820-1869.  Journalist. 
Tkoa.  B.    A.    1812- 187*.    Poet 
Ckas.    E.    1814-        .    Fie. 
■••d,   Heary.    A.    1808-1854^     Crit   aad 

llui 
laad,  Wm.  B.    A     1806-        .    Biog.  and 

Bald,  Mayae.  /  1818-  .  Fie. 
Reid,  ThuM.  S  1710- 1796.  Meta. 
Raid,  H  bitelaw.    A.    1839-        .    Hist  sad 

Edit 
Beol«rf  A.  J.  A.    1825-       .    Pbet 
Rkario,  DaTid.    E     1772-1823.    PoLEooa. 
RIekardMa,  Ckas.    E.    1775  - 1865.    Phik>L 
RIckardsoa,  Sam.    E.    1689-1767.    Kc. 
RIploy,  Gea.    A     1802-        .    Hcl.  and  Crit 
RItckle,  Aaaa  C.  Rowatt    A.    1820- 187a 

Fic  Slid  lirant. 
RlTaa,Wm.  C.    A.    1793-1868.    Biog..  Hist. 

sod  Ktli. 
Rakklaa,  EUaa.    A.  -       .    Hut  and 

Mi>. 
Rokklaa,  Rayal.    A.    1787 -1861.    Hist 
Rakertaaa,  Frad.  W.    E.    1816-1853   Ret 
Rakertaoa,  Wa.   S.    1721-1793.    Histsnd 

Biog. 
Rokiasoa,  Edward.    A.    1794-1864.  Pliik>L 

and  i  lifoi. 
Rocke,  Reiriaa  M.    E.    1765-1845     Re. 
Rogers,  Heary.    E.    1814-        .    TheoL 
Rogers,  Sam.    E.    1763-1855     Poet 
Raaeoe,   Wm.     E.    1753- 1831.     Biog.   and 

Mis. 
RaaMtti,    Christiaa    G.     E.     1830- 

Poet 
Rowe,   Nick.     E.     1673-1718.     Poet    and 

Crit. 
Rowson,    Susanna      A.    1761  - 1824.     Fic. 

niid  Pram 
Boschenberger,  Wm.  8.  W.  A.    1807- 

Trav.  and  Sti. 
RuKb,  Benj.    A.    1745-1813.    ScL.PoL.and 

KS8. 

Raskin,  Joka.    E.    1819-       .    Art 


DICTIONARY    OP    AUTHORS. 


423 


•ml  I'tNi. 
Basaell,  Wm.  H.    E.    .816-        .    Trav.and 

Mm 
Sabine,  L.     A      1803-        ■    Biog.  and  Mis. 
Sackrllle,  Thou.     /:     1536-1608     Poet. 
8aU,   fieo.     \.  1^-7-  tic    and 

Tr»v. 
Sanson,    «eo.    H.     A.    1819-        .     Trav. 

niul  H*s. 

Sands,    Robert  C.    ^.    1799-1832.     Biog. 

and  ¥\c. 
Sargent,  Epes.    A.    1812-        .    Dram,  and 

l\K-e. 
Sarirent,  Winthrop.    A.     1835-1870.    Ilist. 
S«T»ge.  Richard.    E.    1698- 1743.    Poet. 
Saxe,  John  1>.    A.    1816-        .    Poet. 
Srhaff,    Philip.     A.     1819-        .     Tbcol, 

iiist.,  mill  Kill. 
Schnncker,  Sam.  M.   A.  1823-1863.    Hist., 

!{;<)•_',  Tiutil  ,  and  Dram. 
Scknittrker,  Sam.  8.  A.  1790-1863.  TheoL, 

Hio,: ,  and  Trav. 
Schoolcraft,  H.  B.    A      1793-1864.    A.In- 
dians, llist.,  and  Trav. 
Scott,   Sir   Walter.     5.    1771-1832.     Fie. 

nnii  l*.i-t. 
Scott,  Wm.  A.    A.    1813-        .    Rcl. 
Sedgwick,   Caroline   M.     A.     1789-1867. 

Fir.  and  Trav. 
S^lden.   John.     E.     1584-1654.     Pol.  and 

I  ..1  X* 

Sewell,  Thos.    A.    1787-1845.    Sci. 
Shakespeare,  Wm.    E.    1564-1616.    Dram. 

and  I'iK't 
Sharpe,    Sam.    E.  -        .    Antiq.  and 

H.St 
Shaw,  Henrj  W.  (Josk  BMimga).    A.    1818- 

.     \ii«. 
Shea,  John  G.    A.    1834-         .    Hist,  and 

Rt-l. 
Shedd,  Wm.  G.  T.     A.    1820-        .    Hist., 

Ks5..  and  Rcl. 
Shril,  R.  L.    /.     1794- 1851.    Dram. and  Pol. 
Khelle7,  P«  B.    E.     1792-1822.     Poet. 
Shflton,  F.   W.    A      1S14-        .    ("ie.   and 

I'.Mt. 

Shenntone.  Wm.    E.     1714- 1763.    Poet 
Sheridan,  it.  B.    E.     1751-1816     Dram. 
Sherlork,  Thrtn.     E     1678-1761.    Theol. 
Sherlork,  >Vm.     E.     1641-1707.    Theol. 
Khtllabpr.    I»(>nJ.   P.  i-Vm.   Vurtimgtom).    A 

I  Si  4  -  Ml*,  and  Pwt. 

Shirley,  Jaw.     f..     1596-1666.     Dram. 
Kidaejr,  Aiirernon.    E.    i6ai  - 1683.    Pol. 
Sidney.   Sir  PhUlp.    K.     1554-1586.    Fie. 

and  Poet 


Sigonmejr,  Ljrdia  H.    A.    1791-1865.   Poet 
SlUlman,   Ben  J.    A.    1779-1864.    Sci.  and 

Trn> . 
SImms,  Wm.  G.    A.    1806-1870.   Fie.,  Poet, 

Hist.,  Hii*;.'.,  and  Ess. 
Skelton,  John.    E.    1460-1529.     Poet 
Smedley,  F.  S.    E.     1815-1864.     Yic, 
Smiles,  Kam.    S.    1816-        .    Biog.  and  Eat. 
Smith,  Adam.    S.     1723-1790.     Pol.  Econ. 
Smith.  Albert.    E.    1816-1860.     Fie. 
Smith,  Alex.    S.     1830-1867.     Poet 
Smith,  Charlotte.    E.    1749- 180&   lie.  and 

I'ott. 
Smith,  Goldwin.    E.    1823-        .    Hist  and 

Mis. 
Smith,  Horace.    E.    1779-1849.    Poet  and 

Fic. 
Smith,  Jas.    E.     1775-1839.    Fie.  and  Poet 
Smith,   John   Pjre.    E.    1774-1851.     Rcl. 

and  Sci. 
Smith,  SelM  ^J/(i;or/a<ri-J>(NPMtM^).   A.  1792- 

1868.     Fie.  and  Mis. 
Smith,  Sydney.    E.    1771-1845.    Pol.  and 

Ess. 
Smith,  Thoa.  B.    A.    1810- 1871.    Hist  and 

Antiq. 
Smith,  ThOR.  8.    E.    1788-1861.    Sci.  and 

Pliiius. 
Smith,  Wm.     E.     1814-         .    Dieliomaries. 
Smollptt,  Tobias  G.    E.    1721-1771.    Fie. 

and  lli-t. 
Smyth.  Thos.    A.     1808-        .    Rel.andScL 
Somerville,  Mary.    E.     1780-        .    Sci. 
Sonth,  Robert.    E.    1633-1716.    Theol. 
Sonthey,    Robert.     E.    1774-1843.     Poet, 

Mist.,  and  Mis. 
Sonthwell,  Robert.    E.    1560- 1595.    Poet 
Sonthworth,   Emma  D.  E.  N.    A.    1818- 

.     lir. 
Sparks,  Jared.    A.    1794-1866.     Biog.  and 

Ess. 
Spencer,  Herliert.    E.     1820-        .    Philos. 
Spencer,  J.  A.    A.    1816-        .    Hist  and 

Hi 
Spenser,  Edmund.    E.    1553-1599.    Pbet 
Spragne,  Wm.  B.    A.     1795-        .    Rrl.and 

Bk>». 
Sqnier,  E.  Geo.    A.    1821-        .    A  Antiq. 
Stanhope,    P.    H.    (Ear().     B.    1805- 

Ili.Hi    nnd  Ili<>;j 
Stedman.  E.  C.    A      1S33-        .    Poet 
Steele,  Richard.     E.     1671  - 1739.    Eaa. 
Stephens.  Alex.  H.    A.    1813-        .    Pol. 
Sterne,    Lawrence.     K.    1713-1768.     Fie. 

and  KrI 
Stewart,    Dvgald.    S     1753 -iSaa     Mela., 

and  Pol.  Econ. 


424 


DICTIONARY   OF   AUTHORS. 


ttiniBffMt,    Bdward.     E.      1633-1699^ 

Thcol. 
SUrllay,   Wa.    S.    1818-  li:^t    and 

8tUll«  Wm.     a      1689-  I7S5-     iiot- 
Stoddard,    Rirhard    H.      A.      1835- 

I'ot't 

Stowe,  Harriet  B.    A.    i8ta-  .    FIc 
Stntet,  A.  B.    ^     1811-        .    Voei. 

Strlcklaad,  kgum.    i?.    1806-  .    Bio|r.. 

Fir  .  nnd  Ptirt. 

Sirotber,  D.  H.  < Porte  Crmyom).  A.    t8i6- 

.    Trar.  and  Mis. 

8taart«  MotM.    A.    1780-1853.  Ilicol.  and 

riiiioi. 

fiarkllBK,  sir  JoliB.    E.    i6o9-i64x    Poet. 
SalllTM,  Wa.    A     1774-1899.    F»!.,  Hist, 

and  liifig. 
S^Maer,  Ckaa.    A.    1811 -1874.    PoL 
KwalB,  <  haa.    E.    1803-        .    Poet. 
Kwinbarne,  A.  C.    E.     1843-        .    Pbet. 
SwintoB,  Wn.    A.    1834-        .    Philol. and 

Hut. 

Swift,  Joaatkaa.     E.      1667-1745.     T^> 

Pol.,  anil  P.tct. 
Talfovrd,  Tkoa.  If.    E.    1795-1854.    Dram. 

and  Km. 
Tbppmi,  Heary   P*    A.    1806-        .    Etk. 

and  Thrul. 
Taatpkcpii  (The  Bmromsn).    E. 

\u-. 

Tajrlor,  Heary.    E.    1800-        .    Dram,  and 

I'ort. 

Taylor,  Isaae  To/ ^ar).  E.  1759-1839.  fie. 
Taylor.  I«ar.    E     17S7-1865.    ReL 
Taylor,  Bayard.    J.    1835-        .   Trar,  JTc, 

and  Pott, 
Taylor,  Jereaiy.    E.    1613 -1667.    ReL 
Taylor,   Tkos.    itke  PlatonUt).     E.     1758- 

i8?5     Tninii.  of  Plato  and  Aristotle 
Taylor,   Toai.    E.    1817-        .    Dram,  and 

Fie. 
Teatiple,  Sir  Wai.    E.    1628  - 1699.    Pdl.  and 

Teaaeat,  Jas.  E.    E.    1804- 1869.    Hist  and 

Mi« 
T»'nnjson.  A.     F     i8io-         .     Poet 
Terhune,  Mary  T.     ^  -        .     Fie. 

Thackeray,    W.    M.     E.     iSri-1863.     Fie 

and  Mis 
Thateker,  Benj.  B.    A.     1809- 184a  .-Am. 

Indians. 
Thirl  wall.  Con  nop.    E.    1797-  Hist 

Thomas,  F.  W.    A.     1811-1864.    Poet  and 

Fie. 
Thorns,  Wm.  J.    E.     1803-  Notes  end 

(Queries. 


,  Jaa.    E.    1700-1748.    Poet 
,  H.  D.    A.    1817-1861.    TraT. 


Mis. 


Tkorawell,  Jaa.  H.    A.    1811 -i86a     TheoL 
Tk«rp««  T.    B.    A.    1815-        .     Fie.   aad 

Mis. 
Tlckell,  Tkea.    E.    1686-1740.    Poet 
Tlckaer,  Om.    A.    1791-1871.    Hiat  and 

Btofc. 
TIf  ke,  Xary  B.    E.    1774- tSia    Poet 
Tlllotaoa,  Joka.    E.    1630-1694.    Rel. 
TUtoa,  Tkeo.    A.    1835-       .    Edit,  Fte.. 

and  PiM-t. 
Tlairod,  Heary.    A.    1839-1867.    Pbet 
Todd,  Joka.      it.      1800-  Rel.  aad 

Tra». 
Ttaaa,  Ckarlotto  RUaketlu    E.    1791- 

1846.     Fir. 
Tooke,  John  Home.   E    1736-1812.  Philol. 
Tofvasead,  J.  K.    A.    1809-1851.    Scland 

Trav. 
Traack,  RIekard  C.    /.    1807-       .    TheoL 

and  i'liiKtl. 
Tracott,    W«.    H.     A.     1823-         .     Pol. 

and  ilmt 
TroUope,  Aatkoay.    E.    1815-        .    Pic 
Trollope,  Praaceo.    E.    1778-1863.    Trar. 
Trollopr.  Tkoa.  A.    E.    1810-        .    Flc. 
Trowbridire,   J.   T.     A.    1837-       .    Fie. 

Po«t  ,  nnd  Trav. 
Taeker,  Bererly.    A.    1784-1851.    Fie.  and 

U» 
Taeker,  Geo.    A     1775-1861.    Hut.  Biog., 

Vic ,  and  Ks». 
Taeker,   St.   Geo.     A.    1753-1827.     Poet 

and  I.AW. 
Taekenaaa,   H.  T.    A.    1813- 1871     Crit 

and  Fic. 
Tador,  Wai.    A.    1779-1830.    Edit.   Biog., 

Trav.,  and  Mis.   . 
Tapper,  H.  F.    E.    1810-        .    Poet 
Tnrnbnll.  Robert.    ^.1809-  ReL 

Turner,  Sharon.    E.    1768-1847.    Hist 
Tnsser,  ThoB.    E.    1523-1580.    Poet 
Tnthlll,    Louisa   C.     A.    1799-        .     Fic 

and  Mis. 
Tyler,   Sam.    A     1809-        .     Philos.   and 

Biojr. 
Tyndale,   Wm.    E.    1484- 'SI*     Trans,    of 

Mihle 
Tyndall,  John.    E.    1820-        .    Sci. 
Tyn».  S.  H.    A      1800-        .    Ret 
Tytler,    Alex.    F.     S.     1747- 1813      Hist, 

Hio;/ .  and  I.j»w. 
Tytler,    Patrick  F.    S.    1791-1849.    Hist 

and  Biftir. 
UdaU,  Kiekolas.    E.    1506-1564.    Dram. 


DICnONAUY    OP   AUTHORS. 


425 


rpham,    Tho«.    V.    A      1799-        .    Theol. 

ninl  Mi-tn. 
l'>her,Ju.    /•     1580-1656.    Hist.,  Rel.,  and 

Antu,. 
Taabragh,    Sir    John.      /;       1666  - 1726. 

Dniin 
Vauxhan.  Ilonrjr.     W.     1621-1695.     Poet. 
Vaujjhan,   Uobert.    E.     1795  -  1868.    Biog., 

Pol..  auU  ilu-ol. 
Terplanrk,   6.   C.     A.    1787-1870.     Crit. 

niiU  .Mis. 
Vlftor,  MetU  V.    A.    1831  -        .    Fie.  and 

Poet. 
Walker,  Ja.H.  B.    A.     1805-         .    Rel. 
Wallace,   II.   B.    A.    1817 -1852.    Art.  and 

Crit. 
Waller,  Edmund.    E.    1605-1687.     Poet 
WalllH,    Serern    T.    A.    1816-         .     Hist. 

and  L«s. 
Walpole,    Horac«.    A      1717-1797.     Dram. 

and  Ml.'). 
Walton,  Iiaak.    E.    1593-1683.    Biog.  and 

Warhurton.  Wm.     E.     1698  - 1779.    Theol. 
Warburton,    Eliot    B.   Q.    /.     1810-1853. 

Ku-   .iimI  Irnv. 
Ware,  Ilenrj.    A.    1764- 1845.    Rel. 
Ware,  William.    A.    1797-1852.    Fie.  and 

Cril. 
Warfleld,   CatharlBe   A.     A.     1817- 

F.r  niMl  P.Hi. 
Warner,  V.  Dndlejr.    A.    1829-        .    Ess. 
Warner,  SoMin.    A.    1818-        .    Fie. 
Warren,  Saa.    E.    1807-        .    Fie. 
Warton,   Joa.     K.    1722- 180a     Hist,  and 

Cnt. 
WartOB,   Thos.    /,      1728 -179a    Crit.  and 

lllMt. 

Waterton,  ( han.    E.    1782-1865.     Sci. 
Watwn,    H,.nry   C.    A.     1831-1860.     Hi^t 

.•in.l  Fi.v 
WattK,  A.  A.     r:.     1799-1864      i  ,  ; 
WattN,  Ixaar.    1674-1748     Hvn„M 
Wayland,    Franda.    A.    ,796-1865.     Eth 

I'lil  ,  mill  'I  li'iil. 
Webb,  Chaa.  H.    A     1835  - 
Webb,   Jas.    W.    A.    180a- 

lra^. 

Webber,  (haa.  W.     A      .8,9-, 85^     Fie. 
WebMer,  Daniel.     A.     1782-1852     Pol. 
Web«fer,  .lohn.     E     ,7th  CennifT.     Onim. 
WebMer.  Xoah.     A      1758- 1843  '  Philol. 
"eemu,    Majton    L.     A     1759-1823.     Biog. 

mill  Mi4 
Welbjr.  Amelia  B.     .1      1821 -185a.    Pbct. 
Wella,  DaTid  A.    A     1827-        .    Scl  and 

Pol.  Kan. 


Mis. 
Ess.  and 


Wealejr,  John.    E.    1703- 1791.    Theol.  and 

Kel. 
Wesley,  Sam.    E.    1664-1735.    Rel.  and  Poet 
Wealey,  tiam.    E.    1690-1739.     Poet. 
Whatelj,  KIchard.    /.    1787  - 1863.    Theol. 

ami  Liii<;ie. 
Wheaton,  Henry.    A.    1785-1848.    Law. 
Whelpley,  Sam.    A.    1766-1817.    Hist  and 

'llui>l. 
Whewell,  Wm.    E.    1795-1866.    PhUo«.and 

Sci. 
Whipple,  E.  P.    A.     1819-        .    Crit  and 

WhiHton,  Wm.    E.    1667-1752.    Sci.andRcl. 
White,  (jllbort.     E.     1720-1793.     Sci. 
White,  II.  Kirke.    E.    1785-1806.    Poet 
White,  JoH.  Blanco.    E.     1775-1841.    Rel. 
White,  K.  Grant.    A.     1822-        .     Philol. 

ami  Crit. 
Whitefleld,  Geo.    E.    1714-1770.    Rel. 
Whitman,  Sarah  H.    A.    1813-        .    Poet 
Whitiuau,  Walt.    A.    1819  -        .    Poet 
Whitney,    W.    D.    A.    1827-        .      Philol. 

ami  Crit. 
Whlttier,  John  G.    ^.1808-        .     Ion. 
WUberforce,    Wm.     E.    1759-1833.     Rel. 

ami  Pol. 
Wilde,    B.    H.    A.    1789-1847.    Poet,  and 

Biog. 
Wilkea,  John.    E.    ,727  - 1797.    Pol. 
Wilkinson,  John  G.    E.    1798-         .    Hist 
Willard,   Emma  C.    A.    1787-1870.     Hist 

ami  Mi.s. 
WilliamK,  Wm.  B.    A.    1804-        .    Rel. 
Willis,  jr.   p.    A.     1806-1867.    ^oet.   ¥•" 

nn.l  Mi«. 
Wilson,  Alex.    A.    1766- 1813.    Sri. 
Wilson,  Henry.    A.    1812-        .    Pol. 
Wilson,    John      Ckriitopker   North).      1785- 

i8s4      S'     Po-t,.  Fic.  and  Mis. 
WinHlow,H.     A.     1800-1864.     Rel.  and  Eth. 
Winslow,    M.     A.     1789-1864.      Ril.  and 

Philo'. 
Wlnthrop,   John.     A.    1587 -1649.     Hist. 

nml  Ml.. 
Wlnthrop,  Theo.    A.    182S-1861.    Fie. 
Wirt,  Wm.    A.    1772 -1834.    Ring,  and  Ess. 
Wiaemnn,  N.    E.    1802-1865.    Theol.,  Fic., 

anl  E-. 
Wolrot,  John.    E.    17)8-1819.    Po^t. 
Wolfe.  Than.    /.     1791  - 1823.    Poet  j 

Wood,  Geo.     .1.     1799-        .    Fic. 
Wood.  Ellen  P.    E.    1820-        .    Fic. 
Woodnorth.  Sam.    A.    1785-1842.    Poet. 
Woolaey.    Theo.    D.    A.    1801-        .    ^MW 

and  Th.i.i. 
Worcester.  Jos.  E.     A.    1784-1865.    PUUoL 


426 


Wordawoiih,  Wm.    E.     1770-1850.    Poet. 
HottoB,  Mr  Hearjr.    K.    1568-1639.    Puet. 

Wystt,  Mir  ThM.  B.  1503- 154J.  hwL 
Wjrbrrlcy.  Vim.  E.  1640-1715.  Dnua. 
HyrLlUd-,    John.    £.'.     1334    1384.    Trwu. 


DICTIONARY   OP  AUTHORS. 


T«Bf  e,  Charlotte  M 

aiiU  ilisi. 
TMstt,    Wm.     E.     1777-1847. 

Animals. 
T«Mif«  Mward.    if.    1684-1765.    Poet. 
Yoaag,  Thoik    A.    1773-1819.    Aatiq. 


THK   £KO. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

EDUCATION  -  PSYCHOLOGY 
UBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subjea  to  immediate  recall. 

7  DAY  USE  DURING 

SUMMER  SESSIONS 

1 

T  n  oi  A    1 «;».  A  '«q                                     General  Library 

m  36613 


